


The Pursuit of Memory

by Anonymouscosmos



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Amnesia, Chem Addiction, Expect headcanons, F/M, Maxson is less of a jerk, X6-88 gets the love he deserves, and cakes, apparently i can't be happy unless i juggle multiple writing projects at once, i completely change the intro, i'm being very forgiving, if there are any spicy parts it will be written in the style of pride and prejudice ok, noncanons, nor is he dying, probably gonna be a long meandering so tuck in, shaun isn't a senior citizen, sole is not shaun's mother, the brotherhood isn't so bad this time, the institute is evil as shit, this is going to be a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29659806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymouscosmos/pseuds/Anonymouscosmos
Summary: She has conversations with the backs of her eyelids, in the moments she is lucid and alone. Who am I? She asks them. Where am I? What do they want with me?No answers ever come. Not that she expects them. She might be drugged out of her mind and strapped to this bed, but she is not insane. Not yet. She thinks she might be, soon. She can feel her sanity crumbling atop the broken foundation of her mind. Always, one question begs to be asked time and again.Who am I?
Relationships: Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor, X6-88 & Sole Survivor
Comments: 39
Kudos: 15





	1. Awake

**Author's Note:**

> I'm feeling this idea out. It's a WIP. Bear with me :) The first chapter is always sad. Like the first pancake. Half-formed but still edible.
> 
> If you've followed my works thus far, expect art. it's comin'. :P
> 
> This isn't a story that focuses on a Danse romance (that was fun to say), but on our protagonist. Yes, there's a relationship between the two. But there will be chapters that wander off. This story is my indulgence of an idea, with an adorable paladin thrown into the mix.  
> \---------------------------------------------------

She remembers stumbling out of the cryo pod. That much is clear enough. The bite of cold on her skin, her suit stiff and crackling with each movement of her fumbling legs. Her vision, clouded and hazed, seeing the world as though it were an old and faded photograph. Sepia, cracked and torn at the edges with age. No, with… frost. She remembers the anger she felt, renewed by her waking mind. _They fucking froze me._ She remembers the stoic faces surrounding her. Hands, huge and powerful, gripping her from behind. Holding her upright, saving her from falling on her face. She remembers attempting to struggle against it, with a body made gelatinous by its recent ordeal. She remembers the woman in the white biohazard suit stepping close, and the gleam of the syringe. She remembers trying to scream, and her vocal chords refusing to obey. Still cold, stiff, unused to demands. A needle, plunging into the side of her neck. Heat blooming from the injection site. Her body slipping back into its languid prison. Murmured words fuzzed by her debilitated brain. What did they say?

And then… nothing. Adrift, on a sea of darkness so absolute it made her _ache._

At times, she thought she might surface at last. She would glimpse light, and sense the bonds at her wrists and ankles, and struggle against them. But she couldn’t reach the light, bound as she was… and always, a presence would return to her side and she would _feel_ the heat coursing up her arm once more where they placed the needle. Struggling changed nothing. Always, she would return to the endless black waves and the rocking motion that alternated between nauseating and comforting.

As time wears on, she learns to embrace it. To lie perfectly still as the light approaches, and breathe slowly and deeply lest she set the monitor to beeping a frantic rhythm to match her heart. Most of the time, it works. She lies perfectly still, and _listens._ They forget about her when she is this quiet, this still. The gaps between doses stretch out enough that she finds she is able to _think._ In these gaps, she learns things. She hears voices beyond her door, or at her bedside. Voices that have grown complacent over her long internment. No longer watchful. No longer careful. Words float to her through the haze that has long plagued her, and she isn’t sure she understands them… but she will, in time. 

_How long does the Director mean to keep her here?_

_The Institute has no reason to keep her. What use is she to us? In the past forty years we have accomplished everything we set out to do._

Some words, she recognizes.

_Out there, she could be a threat to us. In here, she’s an element we can control. Look at her. She can’t even scratch her own nose right now. I don’t know his reasons for keeping her, but at least within these walls we can moderate the chaos._

_If he’s so attached to her, why doesn’t he just have Binet make a copy of her and be done with it? No good will come of this._

_I suspect it has to do with the loss of his mother. He was so disappointed by what happened._

Her control is not always perfect. Sometimes, the monitor beeps loudly and gives her away. Other times, her eyes will flutter open of their own accord and someone sees. Always, the response is immediate. More liquid sleep forced into her veins. She feels weaker each day. So weak the weight of her own breathing might crush her. If it doesn’t, her despair might. She is certain her body is becoming atrophied lying here. The restraints are unnecessary. She is held hostage by her body far more effectively than the leather cuffs. Even without the cuffs… the room she is held in is a cell. White walls, white floor, and a security door that opens only with the beep of a security card. There is no escape. She will die here. That much she can be sure of.

She has conversations with the backs of her eyelids, in the moments she is lucid and alone. _Who am I?_ She asks them. _Where am I? What do they want with me?_

No answers ever come. Not that she expects them. She might be drugged out of her mind and strapped to this bed, but she is not insane. Not yet. She thinks she might be, soon. She can feel her sanity crumbling atop the broken foundation of her mind. Always, one question begs to be asked time and again.

_Who am I?_

-

Time has lost all meaning to her. It moves in a twisting, undulating current when there is nothing to mark its passage. When she surfaces from a seemingly endless fog, she realizes it is a boon deliberately given. There has been no renewal of the drugs keeping her complacent. The monitor beeps, her eyes flutter open… and no response comes. She blinks, looks around the barren room, and freezes. There is a man seated beside her bed, waiting in a simple metal chair. Upon seeing her wake, he leans forward. His elbows rest on his knees and his fingers lace together. He looks like a man about to have a pleasant conversation with an old friend, rather than a jailer viewing his ailing charge. His hair is dark, shot-through with the first few threads of silver. A promise, of far more to come. His face is lined, intense. There is intelligence behind his eyes. Intelligence and something she recognizes to be... arrogance? Disgust? He is tall, though the softness of his form speaks of a gentle life. It does not make him any less intimidating.

“You are awake at last. That took far longer than my people assured me it would.”

She stares at him, wordless. He stares back, eyes dark and unreadable. _He’s analyzing me,_ she realizes. _He’s looking for… something. What? Recognition?_ She would laugh, if she trusted her tongue to shape the sound. _He has no idea he’s staring into a void._

“What do you remember about your life before the bombs fell?” He asks softly, eyes never leaving her face. Waiting for a reaction. 

She gives him silence, staring back unblinking. He sighs, displeased by this, and leans back in his chair once more. 

“If you would prefer to sleep, I can arrange that. Would another few weeks of oblivion serve any purpose, I wonder? Or perhaps I will bring an end to this, and have my people dispose of you.”

His eyes harden with his words, and she shivers at the coldness in their depths. He is not someone who is used to being resisted, that much is clear. Someone in a position of power, then. For some reason, this realization stirs a stubbornness in her. Perhaps it is a ghost of the person she was, before this. Some remnant who would spit in the face of such a man. She finds she would rather drift upon the sea of oblivion for the rest of her life rather than give him what he wants. A strange reaction, considering they have only just met.

He reaches under his chair and retrieves a manila folder. He lifts it, allowing her to take a good look at it.

“You have questions, I am sure. But I also have questions, and if you want answers… then first, you must answer mine. I know a lot about you. Your name. Your history. I have your entire life, pulled from Vault 111's servers and printed neatly. I’ve spent weeks combing through it, and during all this time I’ve realized something.”

He leans forward, eyes never leaving hers. She shrinks back, unconscious of the response until it has been noted by him. A small smile touches his lips.

“It reeks of a cover,” he continues, his voice so soft it might be a caress. “It’s too neat. Too pristine. So many details, and somehow... entirely empty. I want to know how you ended up in that vault. I want to know how you are tied to my family. I want to know who arranged for you to be here, all this time later, and why your pod was not affected by my people’s power override. Someone was looking out for you, secured your safety… and I want to know who, and why.”

She speaks at last, and when she does, her voice creaks like an old wood floor beneath heavy feet. Halting, rusty, though she is relieved she can form words. She wasn’t entirely sure she could, until now.

“It would seem you know more about me…” and here, she pauses to lick her chapped lips, “Than I do. This is a little like… An encyclopedia asking a blank piece of paper for information.”

He frowns. “Playing games will get you nowhere with me.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. The world is still spinning from the drugs remaining in her system. 

“I wish I were playing a game. Chess, maybe. Or checkers. It would beat lying here, waiting for one of your jackals to stick me again. You want something I can’t give you. I don’t remember anything.”

He gazes at her thoughtfully for a long moment, gauging her sincerity. “Volkert said there may be severe side effects from long-term cryostasis. When I was retrieved from the vault as an infant, I nearly died. I suppose the study of these side effects was precisely the point, wasn’t it.”

It isn’t a question, but she does her best to shrug. He leans back in his chair, cold eyes studying her.

“What is the last thing you remember?”

She clears her throat, still struggling. “I remember… being woken up. And then immediately put under again. Not so much as a handshake first. Your people… aren’t one for proper hellos, it would seem.”

“They were under strict orders to retrieve only.” He sets the manila folder down on the bed. Her eyes follow the movement, curiosity and longing mingling in her chest. Even if he is correct… even if everything in that folder is a lie… it’s something, where she has nothing.

“So… What now?” She rasps. “Whatever you want to know is gone. There’s nothing up there but hot air and tranquilizers.”

His lips curve in a mirthless smile. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that. We have made many great advances over the years spent down here. I expect we will find some way to jog that memory of yours.”

He stands slowly, retrieving the manila folder. She flinches unwittingly as his shadow falls over her, but he only looks down at her impassively before turning. The small smile is still on his lips, and it makes her insides squirm and twist. Whoever this man is, whatever his role in this mysterious prison may be, he is someone to watch out for. She has looked into his eyes and found his soul to be empty and compassionless. _I don’t know who I am,_ she thinks as his swiped card opens the door to her room, _but I suspect you’re the mysterious Director so many whisper about. The question is… Director of what?_

“Fuck,” she says aloud as an orderly comes bustling in, holding a familiar syringe. 

The word feels good. Right. A long-lost love she once used often. She might not have a manila folder of falsehoods, but it’s something.

-

She wakes to an unfamiliar face roughly a foot from her own. She is too sluggish, too slow, to properly react to the invasion of her space. Instead she blinks several times, as though the man with dark glasses and forbidding countenance is a vision. A mirage, at the edge of her world of oblivion. But he doesn’t go away, or move so much as an inch, with each of the blinks. She can see her reflection in his glasses, but it is too blurry and distorted to get a sense of the true picture. She curls her tongue in her mouth, testing it, and finds it is still there. Still moveable.

“Who’re… you?”

He answers by cocking his head slightly to one side. Whether it is to indicate he did not understand her slurred words, or is merely a curious meerkat in an enormous man’s body, she couldn’t say. She tries again, clipping each word as neatly as possible.

“I said… Who. Are. You. Creeper.”

“You were dreaming,” he tells her, again evading the question. He looks oddly satisfied by her disquiet. “And you were speaking in your sleep.”

“Not sleeping,” she shakes her heat and immediately regrets it as the world tilts and yaws all around her. “Drugged out of my gourd, actually.”

“The drugs are necessary.” He sounds sure of this, as though he is aware of something about her she is not. “It is for our safety, not yours.”

“What danger am I? I’m not sure I’d even remember how to tie my shoes.” She glares at him before shifting her eyes to stare pointedly at the peaks of her feet beneath the covers.

The corners of his mouth twitch. “You are… a rather formidable specimen, for a human. Are you not aware of this fact?”

“Ah… _for a human?_ Are you trying to pretend you aren’t part of that club?” She demands. Is there no end to the psychopaths in this place?

He doesn’t answer her question, only straightens in the chair. She is relieved by the sudden distance between them. Even seated, he is enormous. Tall, wide shoulders. His skin a deep, rich amber. He would be handsome, if his entire being didn’t somehow embody a frown. Despite his appearance, there is a spark of light in him. Something beyond his cool exterior. She tries again.

“Why are you here? Did… he send you to kill me?”

“Father?” The stranger asks, then shakes his head. “No. I am here of my own accord. I was… curious.”

She feels her chin wobble. Just a tremor, but enough to prompt her throat to constrict, and her eyes to water. She can’t seem to control it, or herself. She has been alone and afraid and sick to her stomach from all the drugs given to her. With the exception of the mysterious _Director,_ he is the first person to speak to her. To allow her to surface from the compulsory haze. There is no telling what is behind those dark glasses, but she gets the sense he is different. Neither good nor evil, but perhaps somewhere in the middle. Neutral.

“Have I upset you?” That same tilt of his head.

“Would you enjoy being shackled to a bed, with no memory of being made to piss into a bedpan day after day?” She demands, her voice harsh. Compensating, for the sudden vulnerability rising up within her. “They won’t even let me come out of it long enough to walk around this cell.”

“Is that what you wish for?” He asks, face impassive. “To walk around?”

“Sure,” she answers caustically. “Why would I want a loaf of bread, when a single crumb will do?”

He lifts one shoulder in an off-handed shrug, and rises from his chair. He is even taller than the _Director._ He turns to go, long leather coat flapping about his calves, and her resolve breaks.

“Wait. Please.”

He hesitates at the door, then turns. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” she says in a small voice. “I’m just… scared. And alone. And I’m pretty sure your boss plans to do something terrible to me. Maybe kill me.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees. “But the fact that you and I are in the same room, and you live, is evidence enough that no order has been given.”

“You’re his right hand, then, I take it.” Her stomach does a few more enthusiastic flip-flips and somersaults inside her.

“I am a tool, ma’am. Nothing more.”

His access card beeps, and for a moment his enormous frame fills the doorway, blotting out the light in the hall beyond. And then he is gone, and an orderly clad in a neat white jumpsuit appears. Blank eyes, blank expression… A bland, shapeless blob of humanity. She shouldn’t be afraid of such a thing, but she whimpers anyway. And then the whimper becomes a sob, before a new dose snakes its way up her arm.


	2. A Potential Ally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another nugget. I'm not sure I'll keep up such a rapid pace for the rest of the chapters, but... Chapter 1 feels so empty all by itself. As always, thanks for reading <3  
> \-------------------------------------------

Over the next course of what might be a week, she is examined. She is poked, prodded, and made to undergo a dozen different scans. There is some silver lining to the endless invasion. She is spared the brunt of the drug cocktails, so that her mind will be sharper. They give her enough to keep her calm and pliant, no more. She answers an endless series of questions, but they aren’t about her life before. She is made to identify shapes, colors. They have her put puzzles together and finish patterns. She sees more of her prison, but every room is much the same as the others. Clean, white walls. Stainless steel beams and white vinyl. Empty, cold, efficient. It feels less like a prison and more like some kind of laboratory. A lab, in which she is a rat in a maze. She does not see the stranger from before again, though a man clad in identical garb guides her to each appointment with a hand gripping her arm firmly. Unlike the first man, this one does not speak. His face does not move or twitch, and his mood is indecipherable behind the dark shades he wears. She gets the feeling if she stepped out of line he would snap her as easily as a brittle twig. She doesn’t step out of line.

At the end of all this she sits quietly in a white vinyl chair, wrists and ankles strapped down as they always are, and watches the handful of doctors in white coats mill about the printed scan images placed on the luminescent board. They have reached a conclusion about her, be it good or bad.

The  _ Director  _ appears shortly after the doctors are gathered. He doesn’t even look at her. She might as well be a speck of something unpleasant on the pristine vinyl beneath her. He joins in the discussion, his voice no less commanding for the lowered octave. Now and then one of the serious faces will turn back to look at her, severe in its judgement, before turning back to the huddle of sterile coats and lined faces. She is certain whatever is being discussed is directly related to her fate. She will either leave this room under the languor of drugs, or in a body bag. Perhaps they will dissect her like a frog. Peel her open, pinning her to a tray to examine. She shudders at the thought.

She feigns disinterest. She stares at the ceiling, tracing the neat lines of tile with her eyes. She counts the implements on the counter, categorizing each one. Gloves. Ear thermometer. Headlamp. Medical chart. All the while, she strains her ears, picking up what snippets of conversation she can.

_ ...Unexplained amnesia. Likely a result of the cryostasis. We can’t begin to understand the long-term effects of such a stasis... _

. _..The science was new, untested. No telling how long she may remain in this state… _

_ ...Observation and time are key. Stimulation may help... _

_ ...Retracing events, places, will potentially jog what lies dormant… _

The  _ Director _ \- whom they all seem to refer to as  _ Father _ \- Does not seem pleased with their conclusions. He looks over his shoulder at her, finally laying eyes on her. His gaze is dark, angry. She can see something smoldering in his eyes. He harbors a grudge towards her, and it has something to do with her presence in the mysterious _vault._ The secrets he wishes to unlock are trapped in her broken brain, and she isn’t entirely convinced he won’t simply crack her skull open like an egg and fish them out himself.

The  _ Director  _ gestures to her guardian, who leans in close for new orders. Both look at her, and the large man clad in black nods stoically. He approaches her, kneeling and methodically removing her restraints one at a time. She averts her eyes from the prying gazes of the doctors and  _ Director.  _ They are all watching her. Observing her. A rat in their maze, stumbling about.  __ She is weak-limbed, clad in a hospital gown. Her head was shaved during one of her many long bouts of drug-induced darkness, no doubt to make it easier for the orderlies to clean her. Is it disgust or curiosity she sees in them? Does it matter? She is living on borrowed time. Once her memories return and they find what they want, she will cease to be useful to them. Despair grips her, saps her willingness to put one foot in front of the other. Not that she has much of a choice. Her babysitter propels her onward, all but carrying her. 

She shuffles obediently down the long corridor to her cell, and when the door shutters open, she returns to the hated bed she has lain in for so long. She is surprised when her escort makes no move to restrain her again. He inclines his head with a polite  _ ma’am  _ before leaving once more. He, and the others like him, are all much the same. Polite, efficient. Cold. As cold as the walls surrounding her. Was she imagining the flicker of warmth in the first guard’s eyes? The one who sat beside her bed and watched her dream? She hates herself for hoping she did. For deluding herself into thinking there is any chance at human kindness in this strange and empty and hostile place. She wonders if she will ever see him again, and if so… will it be to meet her death, or for another reason?

She focuses on her newfound freedom. Upon examination, she finds her wrists and ankles to be chafed from the near-constant presence of restraints. A headache presses at the boundary of her skull, the backs of her eyes. A low throb that promises to reach a roaring crescendo soon. Her muscles have developed a tremor, too. Her tongue is dry in her mouth, as though she has eaten an enormous spoonful of sawdust. She knows what this is. Chemical dependency. Whatever they have pumped her full of all this time has sunken its claws into her, and the first pangs of a desperate craving are kindling low in her gut. Soon, she will no likely be at her door, pounding on it with her fists and begging for something to take the edge off.

She continues to examine her body. It is the first time she has been both lucid enough and mobile enough to absorb anything. Despite her extended sedentary state, lean muscle meets her questing fingertips. Skin that has known sun, a bronze now fading over her extended time here. Enough sun that the fine hairs on the backs of her fingers and forearms are bleached a light red-gold. She knows she is tall. That much she has gleaned from being of equal or greater height to the myriad of doctors surrounding her at all times. There are scars, too, of various shapes and sizes. Long gashes, the lines faded and no longer rippled or puckered. Small rounds made by bullets, neatly closed over time. More raised than the longer scars, though. More recent? Two over her abdomen. One on her chest, placed just shy of her heart. One on her left arm, of which there is a matching scar making an exit. There is a tattoo above her left breast, which she must crane her head at an odd angle to see without a mirror. An American flag, ink faded and the edges fuzzed by time and sun.  _ US Army/52nd Battalion, _ it reads. A soldier, then. Some time before… now. She remembers her visitor’s words, delivered with some amusement.

_ You are… a rather formidable specimen, for a human. _

She curls and uncurls her fists. Her fingers are long, palms wide. The knuckles of both hands are scarred. She feels herself smile at the sight of them. She is beginning to piece some things together. Either she is a soldier, or an ex-soldier. Judging from her physical condition, she doubts the latter. This fact, combined with the unknowns of her origin and memories, makes these people nervous. Nervous enough that they chose to sedate her and leave her to wallow in darkness, rather than give her a chance to find an edge. To seek out escape. And if they are afraid there is a chance… perhaps there is. Hope uncurls in her chest with tentative fingers. If they are so afraid of her, perhaps there is a good reason to be.

She paces her room, walking around and around the small space until energy hums in her veins. The headache grows worse, until it feels like a hammer is pounding against either temple. She ignores it. She drops to the floor and manages a handful of shaky push-ups before her ill-used muscles protest the abuse. She feels  _ alive,  _ and wants to relish it every second she can before it is taken from her again. 

No orderlies come. Not until hours have passed, and she is curled up on the floor shaking and sweaty, hands clasping her aching head in abject agony. Her gown is soaked through with perspiration, and she is unable to still the muscle tremors. She can’t even see. Sparks and pots of light swim in her vision, and the shapes beyond them are blurred and confused. She welcomes the needle in her arm, and as relief floods her system, she realizes it isn’t as much as before. Not enough to quiet her, not enough to put her under. Just enough to mitigate her body’s desperate need. She is left alone, still curled up on the floor. No hands help her into the bed, or check her pulse. There is freedom in such abandonment. She stays where she is, closing her eyes and glorying in the relief flooding her system. Exhausted from the day’s efforts and soothed by the injection, she slips off into sleep. 

Perhaps it is from the mapping of her scars, or the physical activity… But she dreams of a battlefield.  _ She sees bloodied mud beneath her feet, caking her boots. She hears the whiz of bullets around her, the screams of dying men and women. There is grit in her mouth, and she knows it to be both gunpowder and the blowback of her rifle. Something pings off her helmet, and she feels the bullet tear through the soft meat of her earlobe. She rolls to the ground, crawling forward until the foxhole is in sight. The earth shakes beneath her as a vertibird crashes in the distance, turning the sky orange with the ensuing explosion. This is what she knows, what she was trained to do. It is all she will ever know. Enemy hands seize her, pull her away from near-safety. She thrashes against them, but she might as well be fighting the current of a great river.  _

“Stop. You will only hurt yourself.” 

The words break through her dream, drawing her back into consciousness. She realizes her hands are balled into fists and that she is writhing against the grip of strange hands on her. They are pinning her to the floor, and the full weight of someone’s body is focused into the point of a knee against her stomach. Her panicked eyes focus on the face above her, and as it solidifies she finds herself relaxing. It’s  _ him.  _ The one who watched her dream.

“Get... off,” she wheezes. “You’re way too big and heavy… to sit on me.”

Again, the corners of his mouth twitch. As though he knows how to smile, but can’t remember how to start one. He releases her wrists and eases off of her, withdrawing into an easy crouch a few feet away. He rests his forearms on his thighs, face thoughtful but otherwise unperturbed.

“You were dreaming again,” he says matter-of-factly, “and speaking aloud. You often talk in your sleep, but this time… It was different. You were not afraid.”

She pushes herself upright, sweaty palms slipping against the cold floor beneath her, until she is leaning against the bedside table. She remembers something, and lifts one hand to her right ear. It is misshapen, scarred. The lobe re-shaped and stitched closed by a doctor, repaired as best as they were able. Scar tissue marbles what is left of it. Not a dream, then. A memory of some kind.

“Why are you here?” She asks, afraid of the answer.

“I wish to observe you,” he answers simply. “I find you intriguing. Human, but somehow still a blank canvas. As though you have been wiped of all memory, but were never reprogrammed. Like a synth would be.”

“A synth?” She repeats dumbly. “What is that? A robot?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he dips his head in assent. “Though far more advanced than you can possibly imagine.  _ I _ am a synth.”

She eyes him dubiously. He is as human as she is, whatever his cold demeanor. She is sure of it. 

“Liar. I’m not so drugged up that I can’t see you’re perfectly human.”

This time, his lips  _ do _ curve in a smile. It is a slight and fleeting thing, but there is no mistaking it. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

“Sure you do,” she sneers. “If your boss sent you here to mess with my head, hoping to… Jog my memory, or extract information, I get the impression you’d do anything to achieve your ends.”

“He sent me here,” her guest agrees. “But on orders to observe, nothing more. I have already overstepped my original orders by touching you. By speaking to you.”

“Why?” 

He tilts his head in the way that has quickly become familiar to her. “I told you already. I find you intriguing.”

“Because I can’t remember shit?” She laughs, running a hand over her face. “They must not have TV here, if this is your idea of a show.”

“That, and more. I wish to know what you were, before you became this empty vessel.”

“I’m not… entirely empty,” she shakes her head, irritated by his descriptor of her. “I remember things. Just not… Any details that matter.” She has said more than she planned to say, and at the realization of this, she presses her lips into a thin and determined line. 

“Please go on,” he urges, a small note of eagerness in his mellow voice.

“I don’t know you, and I don’t trust you,” she answers. “If you want to know more about me… Then first, you must tell me a little about you. Tit for tat.”

“My designation is X6-88,” he tells her. “Now you know me.”

An involuntary smile creeps over her face. “It takes a little more than that to know someone. Tell me, X6-88, what do they call me? Have I been assigned a name?”

“Father calls you  _ Andy.”  _ He frowns. “Though this is not your true name. He says it is an alias.”

“Andy,” she murmurs to herself. There is familiarity and warmth in it. False name or not, it is better than thinking of herself as  _ the patient.  _

“That is two things I have given you,” he prompts. “Will you tell me what you remember, now that we… know each other?”

“You’re just going to repeat it all to the  _ Director,  _ aren’t you.” Not a question, but a statement. She knows the answer.

“I keep no secrets from Father,” he answers.

She hesitates, chewing on her lip for a moment. There isn’t really any harm to it. The things she would share aren’t things that will matter. They are certainly not anything of value, or substance. Useless information that does her no good here.

“I remember a lot of things,” she confesses. “I could describe to you in detail what pizza tastes like. I could tell you I prefer a good IPA to just about any other beer. I know I can change the oil on a car, or repair a leaking roof. I remember what sand feels like between my toes, or how the ocean air tastes on a hot day. My head is full of shit like this, and it's all... meaningless. Useless tidbits of who I was, without any explanation of  _ me.” _

“Fascinating,” he breathes, sounding truly impressed by her state of disaster. “All this, and… No true memories? You do not remember the last time you ate this… pizza, or walked a sandy shore?”

“No,” she admits ruefully. “It’s as though it’s all there, but… I can’t see it. Just beyond my vision or grasp.”

He is leaning towards her, the movement unconscious. Tipping forward on the balls of his feet, head inclined. An eager child, waiting for the next chapter of a book being read aloud. It is strangely endearing. As endearing as an enormous man clad in leather, eyes hidden, can be. She almost laughs at herself for the absurdity of her thought. She decides it is her turn for an answer.

“What was I saying? In my… sleep, just now.”

He considers her for a moment, and she is sure behind his glasses he is searching her face. At long last, he speaks.

“You were shouting commands, as though to others. Orders to return fire, to take cover. It sounded as though you were experiencing a combat situation. And then… You were calling out to someone. Someone named Callahan. The distress in your voice was rather pronounced. I would surmise this was a memory, surfacing in the form of dreams… and that this Callahan was significant to you.”

She blinks. She doesn’t remember that part of the dream. Whoever Callahan is, or was… they are lost to her once more. Bitterness sweeps through her, even though she isn’t entirely sure her lost memories are something she wants back.

“Gee, you’re not as dumb as you look.” She means to sound scathing, but her tone is too light to be construed as such. She feels herself  _ grinning,  _ an unfamiliar and lopsided thing that affixes to her face with surprising ease.

A smile flickers across his face, and is gone as suddenly as it appeared. Wiped away by force of will. It seems to unsettle him somehow, and without another word he rises to his feet.

“I should be going, ma’am,” he says abruptly. “I have other duties and obligations that require my attention.”

“Will you be coming back?” She asks, suddenly mournful at the withdrawal of warmth.

“That depends on Father, and what he wishes of me.” He examines her thoughtfully. “I may well be in significant trouble for breaching his original order parameters. If I do not return, it is likely because I have also been wiped.”

“Wiped?” She echoes. “What do you mean?”

“As I have told you before, I am a synth. Whereas your memories are part of who you are, merely malfunctioning due to side effects from stasis, mine are encoded into me. As such, they may be wiped should I cease to operate within acceptable limits.” His voice has the hard tone of taxed patience to it, as though he is growing tired of explaining himself.

“Christ, you are really set on convincing me you’re a robot, aren’t you?” She turns her face away, refusing to look at him again. “Go trouble someone else with these games of yours. I don’t have the stomach for it.”

He leaves without engaging with her further. She feels almost angry with him, resentful of the bleakness of absence he leaves behind. He seemed bothered by the sudden sense of camaraderie between them. He sees his leaving for what it is… a retreat before something that makes him uncomfortable. She has no friends in this place, but she thinks… barring any consequences resulting from his overstepping… she might have one. An ally in this sterile prison would be the first step to escape. 

She is unable to sleep again. Instead, she begins to pace her cell. She counts every step, vowing to double them the following day. If she is allowed to. If she is still alive come morning.


	3. Pretty Robot

The next time she sees X6-88, he has regained his cool veneer. The hint of warmth is gone, and the corners of his mouth remain still when she looks up at his entrance. It has been days, she realizes. He’s avoided her for  _ days. _ Their allowing her to remain conscious and upright has in turn allowed her to memorize the rotating shifts. She couldn’t guess which one is night shift and which is day, for it is all the same to her. She sleeps, she wakes. She takes the flavorless ration packets, grateful for tangible food rather than nutrient drips. She is allowed to shower herself, and a sponge and toothbrush are provided. White jumpsuits and slippers are given for her to wear, and though she hates them and they fit as though made for a shorter and slimmer woman, she dons a clean one each day.

“I thought maybe they erased your robot brain,” she says by way of greeting. Her tone has a degree of venom to it, and she does nothing to abolish it.

“Father was displeased with my overstepping,” he answers, ignoring her sarcasm. “But over time, he has decided my presence is more helpful to his design than hindering.”

“So you’re here to pry into my brain in an official capacity, huh?” She can’t help but feel embittered by it. Even knowing he would report back, there was an honesty to his past presence here. An earnestness in his desire to know more. Now it is compulsory.

“Father believes perhaps regular conversation and revisiting your existing memories and dreams will aid in your recovery.”

“Well, if  _ Father  _ believes it, then it must be true.”

She is sitting cross-legged on her bed, carefully unraveling a thread from her pillowcase and winding it about her fingertip. The most recent, though lower, dose of drugs has softened her filter. She is not particularly concerned with his feelings at the moment.

“He is a great man,” X6 tells her. “I would not exist if it were not for him.”

“Not the robot story again,” she groans. “If you’re here to fuck with my head some more, just leave. I might prefer the drug coma to your being just like the rest of them.”

He stands at the foot of her bed for a long moment. The silence stretches out wider and wider, until she doesn’t dare look up at him. It would be awkward now. She focuses on the perfectly white thread wound about her fingertip, and pretends it is the most interesting thing in the entire world. When his weight settles on the edge of her mattress, she forgets her willfulness. She looks up, startled, and watches as he slowly removes one glove. He extends his hand to her, now bare, offering it up for her inspection.

“I am not like the rest of them,” he says firmly, the absolute seriousness in his voice making her question her doubts. “Though I appear to be, in every way that matters. Look for yourself.”

Warily, she reaches out and takes his hand in both of hers. It is still warm from being encased in the glove. She runs her fingers over his palm, the rough pads of his own fingers. There are calluses, just like on hers. He is no desk jockey, then. Not that she ever got the impression he was. He is more brick wall than accountant. She presses her thumbs into his palm, feels the fine bones and ligaments beneath flesh. She turns his hand over, noting the neatly trimmed and filed nails. Meticulous, tidy. Just like his haircut and clean-shaven face.

“My kind are virtually indistinguishable from yours,” he tells her. “But I assure you, I am synthetic in origin.”

She raises her eyes to his face. “Your glasses,” she says. “Take them off.”

She sees one eyebrow lift from behind the mirrored lenses, before he nods slightly. He raises his free hand and removes the glasses. She realizes she is holding her breath, as though she expects glowing red orbs or laser beams to appear from the shadows of his sockets. Instead, calm grey eyes gaze back at her. They are the exact color of storm clouds. Gloomy, mercurial. Unreadable. She leans closer, peering intently at them. His irises are no different than anyone else’s, striations of natural geometric patterns within their depths. Moisture shines at the corners, and small vessels branch out over the whites of his eyes. In every way, they are human eyes. Indistinguishable.

“You’re very pretty,” she pronounces at last, releasing his hand and allowing him to retract it. “But I haven’t seen anything to prove you’re a pretty robot rather than a pretty man.”

“Pretty,” he repeats, both brows raised. “An interesting descriptor for a Courser.”

“A  _ what?” _

“A Courser.” He puts his glasses back on, then begins to pull the glove back onto his bare hand. “An instrument of the Institute. My primary function is to retrieve lost Institute property, but I serve many other purposes as well. I am Father’s right hand. Sometimes, I retrieve items from the surface for him. Other times, I eliminate targets that would threaten the Institute’s future.”

“Am I a threat to the Institute’s future?” She asks softly.

“Not yet,” he answers truthfully. “But someday, you may be. And should that day come, I am afraid I will be forced to dispose of you.”

_ Dispose of you. _ Words spoken so casually, as though he is talking about a crumpled paper cup rather than a human being. Something to be tossed into a wastebin, no longer useful. Her stomach twists again. She was a fool to think he might be an ally. If his words are true… If he is a synthetic being, made by this  _ Institute…  _ Then he has no choice in his alliance to them. He will jerk when they tug on his strings, and the closer she is to him the more easily it will be for him to act out their orders.

“I’m very tired,” she says suddenly. “I’m not feeling quite myself. Can we continue this conversation another time?”

“If that is what you wish, ma’am,” he agrees smoothly. “I will call on you again tomorrow.”

She waits until the door shuts behind him to let a long breath out. She thinks perhaps she has been holding it since he removed his glasses.

_ I have to get out of here,  _ she thinks.  _ I don’t know what lies beyond these walls. Perhaps only death awaits, or more people just like these. But I’d rather take my chances out there than in here.  _

If she stays, she is doomed anyway. Whatever malevolence brewing in the Director’s heart is related to her. Something she did, or might have done. It has to be related to the vault, and to his family. He said he was taken from the vault as a baby. She has heard his mother mentioned by other scientists and doctors. Did…  _ she _ do something to his mother? Why else would he go through the trouble of retrieving her, holding her in this place, and combing through her mind?

X6 visits her again the next day, as promised. She steers their conversation away from anything personal. Not that she  _ has  _ anything personal to share, she reminds herself. She describes ice cream to him, surprised that he is not aware of such a thing. The compound she is being held in must be truly isolated. Military, perhaps? Or a private institution focused on science? She doubts the former. The people here don’t seem like a military sort. Perhaps they locked themselves away to avoid the judgement of the rest of humanity. She tries to explain the magic of rocky road, but though the description of it comes easily enough to her tongue, she can’t  _ remember  _ the way it tastes any more than she can remember a time she went and ate some. She uses words like  _ chocolate  _ and  _ marshmallow  _ as though they mean something to her beyond their use for description. X6 senses the emptiness in her words, and though he nods politely, he seems disappointed. He hoped for more, and senses she is hedging. Stalling, out of fear of what comes after memory.

The fourth time he visits her, he brings a stack of old magazines. They are filthy, crumbling, waterlogged. The smudges they leave on the perfectly white sheets fills her with delight for some reason. Chaos, in her careful manicured prison.

“What are these?” She asks, running a finger over the cover of one of them. It boasts of making a housewife’s life easier, with modern amenities that do the work for you. A woman smiles up at her, baring teeth that must have been brilliant white when the magazine was printed. She wears a polka dot dress and matching hair ribbon. The magic of the portrayal is ruined by one eye burned away by either a coal or a cigarette butt, and splatters that look suspiciously like somewhat fresh blood.

“They are magazines from your time,” he explains. “I liberated them from their prior owners.”

“Woah, hang on. You murdered people? Over… Magazines?”

His head cocks to one side, as he is often wont to do. “I find  _ people _ is generally a loosely applied term. They were raiders. Predators, who kill their own kind for sport and personal gain. None will miss them.”

“Gee, when you put it like that… How can I refuse your lovely gift? Did you bring me any human teeth to use as bookmarks?”

He ignores her jab, eyes unreadable behind his glasses. She thumbs through one magazine, peering at unfamiliar photos and advertisements. An article about removing stains from your Corvega’s upholstery. A software upgrade for all Mr Handys following an incident involving creme brulee, a butane torch, and arson. Her lips curve into a smile at the picture accompanying the words. A robot that looks like a bubble with three arms. Familiar to her, somehow, though elusive still. Did she know one?

“Let me guess,” she says, looking up from the tattered item. “This is a new technique to jog my memory.”

“I am hopeful that seeing things you were once familiar with will assist your mind in recovering,” he answers, sitting at the foot of her bed.

“How much time has passed since I… Since someone froze me?” She asks, not sure if he will answer the question.

“Two hundred and ten years.”

She stares at him, unsure if she has heard correctly. “Two  _ hundred _ and ten? Years?”

“You repeat phrases often, for one with perfect hearing.”

“Don’t be a wise ass,” she snaps. “You just… shocked the hell out of me with that news. How long has it been since they pulled the Director from this vault of theirs?”

“They retrieved him forty-five years ago,” he replies. “He has been our Director for the last twenty years.”

“And me?” She dares ask. “How long have I been here?”

He considers the question, as though unsure if he should answer. “You have been here nearly a month.”

Her heart flutters nervously at his words. It is both longer and far shorter than she thought or felt it to be.

“Do they know how long this… my memories returning… might take?” She flips through a magazine, as though her interest is only casual. She is afraid he will clam up, reluctant to share more with her.

“Doctor Volkert says it could be days, perhaps weeks. Most likely it will be months. He believes the crude method used to place you and the others in stasis is somehow responsible for the damage to your brain. There is truly no way to gauge how long it will take, though exposure to memory triggers may help. Hence, the magazines.”

“And here I was, thinking you were concerned about my level of boredom. My mistake.” She offers an off-handed smile, and can feel its insistence to hang on her face crookedly.  _ Must be the way it has always been, _ she decides. A broken smile that suits the rest of her.

“I admit,” he says, his voice dropping to a shadow of its usual timbre, as though afraid someone might overhear, “I often find myself concerned about your well-being. It is... perplexing.”

She looks up sharply at his words, and for perhaps the first time, she almost believes he is a robot. A… synth. There is a conciseness to his manner, combined with almost childlike wonder at times, that is not normal. He is clearly different from the doctors and scientists who have made her life such a misery. Where they have all the typical human factors, be it liver spots or an unpleasant personality… there is an emptiness where all such nuance might be found in X6. Empty, but not in the way she is empty. If these people are truly capable of such a marvel, then… perhaps X6 is a prisoner, too.

-

She thinks perhaps she has the shifts confused when a janitor appears to tidy up her already-pristine room.  _ Did I oversleep by a full day?  _ She wonders, rubbing at her eyes and yawning. The woman does not seem to notice her inquisitive eyes, focusing instead on the mop she is wringing out. A simple white jumpsuit, the same as Andy’s. Downcast eyes, and dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. The woman starts mopping in the far corner, gradually working her way closer to Andy’s bed. The smell of astringent fills the room; a marker of the somewhat noxious cleaner they always use. The janitor pauses by the bedside table, leaning down to move something aside. Andy’s slippers, perhaps. When she speaks, Andy nearly misses the words. They are just above a whisper, spoken without the movement of her head.

“This is single-use,” the janitor says. “The chip is designed to burn out immediately after activation. You have one shot to get clear of here. They will pursue you almost immediately, and with impunity. Wait at least twenty-four hours, and then plan your escape. Don’t waste your chance.”

She straightens from tidying the slippers and socks on the floor beside the bed, face as smooth and expressionless as it was when she first entered the room. Andy keeps her own face slack, making a show of turning back over and pulling the blankets over herself once more. Beneath the covers, she dares to breathe. Hope, a tenuous thing, now burgeons beneath her ribs. Her heart pounds. What is under the bed? An access card, perhaps? She has not seen enough of this facility to properly map out an escape. She supposes she could climb into some ducting and attempt to crawl out that way. What is beyond these walls? More walls? Armed guards, razor wire fences? Men and women like X6-88, trained and capable in retrieval operations? The thought of him pursuing her in a professional capacity makes her throat clench nervously.

She feigns sleep long after the janitor has finished her work, nestled safely under her covers. It has long been a suspicion of hers that she is under constant surveillance in this room. They would leave nothing to chance. The woman’s caution confirms it. There must be a camera somewhere… or  _ cameras _ , watching her every move. Waiting for the first sign of her memories returning. That means someone sat and watched her discussion with X6, saw her lower her guard and hold his hand in hers. The thought squirms about like something slippery. They’ve watched her shower, change. They’ve seen her toss and turn in her troubled sleep. Someone watched the orderlies dose her again and again and again. She fights a sudden desire to shout, to beat her fists against the door and demand the right to crush someone's skull for the  _ indignity  _ of it all.

Another remnant of her past, perhaps. The soldier she used to be, more comfortable with wielding a firearm than being a lab rat.

When she finally rises from her bed, she uses her changing of outfits to disguise one questing foot tucked under her bed. She feels something with her toes as she unzips her jumpsuit. A nylon band, like a watch might have. Some sort of device to be worn on her wrist, then? A compass? A security bypass? Her eyes flick to the door, then back to her fingers on the jumpsuit.  _ Stay cool,  _ she reminds herself.  _ Stay calm. They only know as much as you allow them to see.  _ Surreptitiously, she nudges the item under her discarded jumpsuit, before picking it - and the jumpsuit - up. She doesn’t have many places she can hide such an item, but if there is anywhere safe, it’s in her bedding. They change the blankets and linens once a week. She isn’t due for another switch until several days from now. She places the crumpled jumpsuit on the bed, shifting the strange device under the edge of a blanket. There. That will do for now. Out of their sight, far from out of her mind.

She manages to go about her day relatively normally. She showers, noting as she scrubs herself that the hair atop her head has been growing with some enthusiasm. It is no longer coarse stubble, but perhaps half an inch of soft growth. She runs soapy fingers over her tattoo, lingering there, as though she might divine something from its presence on her skin. Nothing comes to mind. Whatever lies beyond these walls, she will have to face it as a blank piece of paper.

She steps out of the small bathroom, wrapping her towel about her, and lets out a small cry of surprise. The  _ Director  _ is standing in the middle of her room. His hands are clasped behind his back, brows furrowed into an expression of vague disapproval and disgust. When his eyes settle on her, she feels suddenly small, despite their near-equal height. As though his gaze has the power to wither her away into nothing. In truth, he does wield such a power. One command, one nod of his head, and she would be dead. Euthanized, for the crime of being unable to remember a single goddamn thing. Flight response burbles anxiously within her, and she forces it down. She lifts her chin and meets his gaze with a frigid one of her own. Nevermind that she is clad only in a towel, water dripping from her and puddling at her feet. Hardly the picture of defiance, but this moment of rebellion is all she has.

His lip curls slightly in derision, and he allows his eyes to roam from her feet to the top of her head. Weighing, judging. Her heart thunders against her ribs.  _ Has he found the device? Did someone see the exchange?  _

“You have been wasting my resources for over a month,” he says coldly. “Do you expect me to believe you remember nothing, after all this time?”

_ “You’re _ the genius scientist. Shouldn’t you be able to tell me how long this is going to take?” She flashes him a wide smile, and is rewarded by the subtlest flare of his nostrils. She is not so powerless after all. She can incite anger in him, at the very least. Probably not a good idea to piss off the warden, but she is somewhat beyond caring.

“Believe me when I say I know the absolute limits a human body may be pushed to.” His voice is deadly calm, composed. He looks at her with a face so devoid of emotion he could be mistaken for stone. “And I daresay yours might be pushed even further. You are in excellent physical condition. You have one week, after which I will cease to care about unraveling the mystery you have left me with. One week to either confess your amnesia is a farce, or dredge up what I wish to know from the depths of your simple mind. Should you fail, I assure you… Death will be the least of your concerns.”

He turns on his heel with one last chilling look, and she flinches involuntarily when his access card beeps.

  
_ Twenty-four hours,  _ she reminds herself.  _ Two shift changes. Then I’m either out of here or shot dead in the process of getting out of here. Either way, it’s got to be better than what he has in store for me. _


	4. Andy Was Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain went into overdrive last night and I wrote a metric ton. And then I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about my fic. **sigh**  
> Enjoy my suffering.  
> \-----

There is nothing to do but play along until the time has passed. She holds still for her next round of sedatives, and naps after as she usually does. Her vision is still swimming when she wakes an hour later, but it won’t last too long. Over the weeks of freedom in this cell, her body has built some small tolerance to the current dosage. As long as they don’t up it, she’ll be able to fight through it. She makes this part of her act, maintaining a slugging pace and blinking lazily at the wall for minutes on end. She isn’t sure why the twenty-four-hour marker is so important, but she imagines if she succeeds in her escape, she will find out. When she goes to bed that night, she carefully places the device under her pillow. She considers her options for a weapon. There is nothing in this room she might use to defend herself, unless she plans to beat someone to death with a non-skid slipper. Her bed is one uniform piece of frame, all rounded edges and painted metal. Beyond that, her bedding, a handful of toiletries… she has nothing. She will have to rely on her feet, and hope the lowered dosage of drugs doesn’t hamper her too much. 

X6 visits her the morning preceding her escape. He has brought her more items. Tarnished cans of food, stale snack cakes, and bottles of Nuka-Cola. She watches in silence as he places the items on the bed before her, his stoic face somehow managing to look pleased.

“I thought perhaps the introduction of food from your past might aid in the restoration of your memories,” he explains.

She picks up one of the cans, squinting at the faded and peeling label.

_“Cram,”_ she reads aloud. “Fuck you if you think I’m eating this. It’s horrible. Have you ever tried it?”

“I have not,” he admits. “It is strictly forbidden to eat surface food.”

She eyes him suspiciously. “Why?”

He shrugs in his off-handed way. “It is forbidden for synths to imbibe anything but approved rations. There are many rules and regulations regarding our contact with the outside world. Father has his reasons. It is not my place to question him.”

“Yeah, I bet he prefers his lackeys to be seen and not heard.”

X6 frowns. “Your exposure to him has been limited, and your perspective altered by your predicament. Father is a great man. If not for him--”

“I know,” she interrupts. “If not for him, you wouldn’t exist. Blah, blah. I’m pretty sure he programmed your robot brain to say that, you know. You’re like a flashing neon advertisement for his merits.”

“Why don’t you try one of these snack cakes,” X6 presses, nudging one of the boxes towards her. “It has to be an improvement upon _Cram.”_

If her words have offended him, he shows no sign of it. She reminds herself he is being watched as surely as she is, and whatever his thoughts, he must also put on a show. He looks at her, fingertips resting on the crumpled box of snack cakes, until she relents and takes the proffered item with a sigh. Crinkling wrappers meet her hand as she rummages around, and she fishes one out with the enthusiasm of someone discovering a dead spider in a shoe. She eyes the snack cake dubiously, then peels the wrapper apart.

To her surprise and slight horror, the cakes within are still soft. Stale, yes. But somehow soft, after all these years. A condition she did not expect considering the tattered box they came from. She wrinkles her nose, breaks off a bite of the sugary confection, and pops it into her mouth. X6 stares as she chews, and she is certain if there were hidden lasers behind his glasses they would burn right through her from the intensity of his focus.

_“Schtoff,”_ she protests around a mouthful of cake. She swallows, nearly choking, and tries once more. “Stop, you’re weirding me out, staring like that.”

“Do you remember anything?” He demands, suddenly almost businesslike.

“I’ve had one bite of stale cake, X6. Can you relax and let me enjoy this packaged garbage, please.”

His mouth curves into a slight frown, but he nods and leans back, lessening the tension between them. She takes another bite, chewing it thoughtfully while gazing at him. She realizes, in a strange moment of what can only be some sort of Stockholm syndrome, that she will miss him. Whether she is dead or somewhere far from here, she has grown to look forward to these conversations; to feeling out the depths of this strangely magnetic marble statue in fashionable glasses.

“What’s eating you?” She demands, sucking crystallized sugar from her thumb. “You’re in quite the mood today. Both bossy _and_ grumpy.”

“I am merely impatient with our lack of progress,” he answers, his voice surprisingly cold. She blinks at him, and he amends in a much lower tone, _“We are running out of time.”_

_So, the Director’s plan for me isn’t a secret. That’s… not a good sign._

“Don’t worry about it,” she answers with equal gentleness. “I’m sure I’ll remember something eventually. Thank you for trying so diligently to help me.”

“It is my duty.”

“Right. Of course it is.” Then, “Are you sure you don’t want a bite?”

She waves the last bite of the cake at him, as though she means to feed it to him personally. He gives her a withering look, flashes of gray peering over the frames of his glasses disapprovingly. She tries making airplane noises, waving the bit of cake around enthusiastically, but the hangar refuses to open. She only chortles before eating it herself.

By the end of the second cake, she is still without answers. Her mind is stubbornly blank. She recognizes the snack cakes. She knows she has eaten them before, though they are far too sweet for her preference. Beyond that… it is like the ice cream. A description, rather than a true feeling. X6 gathers the remaining items once more, apparently deciding this plan of attack another bust. She can’t resist a goodbye, however casual, as he swipes his access card at the door.

“Later, tater,” she says softly.

She almost regrets her words. He tenses, as though sensing something in her voice. His head swivels to look at her over his shoulder. She tries for a guileless grin. _Act natural, you fucking idiot. Remember who he is and where his loyalties lie._ He hesitates for only a moment, then one corner of his mouth lifts in the subtlest acknowledgement of her smile, and he is gone. He steps out into the gleaming white hall beyond her door, and then it shutters closed and she is alone once more. Sometime after, she remembers to breathe and her heart remembers how to beat. Tonight. She has to leave tonight, after the last shift change. She doesn’t dare let this go on any longer. She’ll be fumbling and fuzzed around the edges with such a fresh dose of drugs in her, but she will figure it out as she goes. 

-

  
  


She crawls into bed sluggishly. It isn’t an act. Her body is warm, relaxed. It feels like submerging herself in a warm bath. Christ, she misses baths. Sinking to the bottom, allowing the hot water and bubbles to envelop her. Soothing her aching muscles after being deployed for so long…far more satisfying than a solar shower in a desert. Her eyelids flutter in startled recognition. It’s almost a memory. A real one. Not just another description of an event, but a truly remembered sensation of being surrounded by hot, bubbly water. She nearly laughs aloud, then checks herself. The last thing she needs is to draw attention. To be pulled from her bed and poked and prodded, barring her escape. And if they found the device, what then? Her only chance of running, gone.

She pulls the covers up over her head, and only then does she slip her hand under the pillow. Her fingers locate the item, and she pulls it free. Under the white blankets and sheets, she can see well enough. It is never dark in her cell. They wouldn’t allow her something so private as darkness. The item looks like a digital watch, though the numbers frozen on the screen are not a moment in time, preserved by a dying battery. She counts the number of digits, noting the dots. _Coordinates._ Curious, she clicks the small button on the side. The screen lights up, a brilliant green. _Fuck. Someone might see that through the thin covers. Fuck, fuck, fuck._ The coordinates are replaced by a word. One word, that will either be her doom or redemption. _Confirm?_ It says. Heart in her throat, she depresses the little button a second time. _Confirm_ is quickly replaced by a countdown. 3...2…

“Fuck,” she says aloud. And then she is surrounded by a blinding white light, and in the time it takes her to squeeze her eyes shut and put a hand over them, the room about her disappears.

When the light dissipates, she realizes she is no longer in the white room. The bed beneath her is gone, replaced by a hard surface. Cool air meets her skin. She blinks, struggling to clear the bright spots in her vision. She smells… damp earth. Rotting leaves. Something on the air, like… rusted metal and decay. The spots begin to fade from her stunned eyes, replaced by hundreds of thousands more. Stars, bejeweling a fading night sky. It is the earliest part of morning, from the looks of it. The full moon is fading at the edges with the breaking of dawn, giving ground to something as timeless as the earth itself. She stares up at the sky, mouth agape and eyes wide. The device…. _Teleported_ her out of her room, her prison. How is such a thing even possible? Whoever her captors are, they’re certainly not the average run-of-the-mill evil scientists.

A pop and a hiss distract her from the sky overhead, and she yelps when the device in her hand bursts into flame. She throws it from herself, bringing singed fingers to her lips, and watches as the flames disappear as quickly as they sprang to life. Right. The self-destruct her rescuer mentioned. Andy wonders if she has always been this stupid and slow to react, but reminds herself she is still heavily under the influence. Acquired tolerance or not, she feels about as sharp as a teddy bear just now.

What else did that woman say? She chews on her lip, remembering. 

_They will pursue you almost immediately, and with impunity._

Right. Fuck. _That_ slightly important detail. She staggers to her feet, mud and leaves sullying her pristine white jumpsuit. She laughs aloud, delighted by the filth, and then… her laugh dies in her throat, and she stares at the world around her with wide and stunned eyes. The teleport device dropped her perhaps ten paces away from a road. A road cracked and broken apart. Beyond it, a freeway overpass has all but crumbled where it once stood. The enormous pillars and sway bars rusted, bent. Entire portions of it crashed to the earth, jutting out like the bones of prehistoric whales. The metal skeletons of vehicles, turned faded orange and russet with time and only remnants of their former color cleaning to them, line the roadways. The trees are either dead or look to be half-dead, a handful of leaves clinging to each branch where once they might have blotted out the sun with their density. The grass that grows is scraggly, patchy. The mark of something growing where it has no business taking root. 

She may not have her memories, but she knows this is not the world she once called home. This world is broken, cracked, destroyed. Caving in on itself, decaying. She shakes her head, rattling loose her reluctance. There is no time to dilly-dally. If they don’t know where she went, she imagines they have the means to find out… and fast. Far off in the distance, she spies a cluster of buildings. There is only a small hope she will find someone willing to assist her, but her odds amongst walls that can hide her are better than standing in the open waiting for X6 to appear and put a bullet between her eyes. She begins to jog, and though her legs are unsteady and sweat immediately appears on her brow, the adrenaline surging through her overrides the effect of the drugs far more effectively than her willpower can.

She is forced to stop, hopping on one slippered foot in agony, when a sharp stick pierces her foot. Blood immediately wells up, painting the ground. _Wonderful, Andy. Hand-paint some directional signs so they can find you a little more easily, huh?_ She rips one sleeve of her jumpsuit off unceremoniously, wrapping it and tying it securely around the injured foot. She is more careful of where she places her feet as she continues on. There are no more sleek vinyl floors. Only rough terrain, desiccated ruins, and the possibility of death appearing beside her at any given moment. 

She is wending her way through a series of defunct cars when she hears a sound. Instinctively, she drops into a crouch. Peering around a rusted bumper hanging on for dear life, she spies the source of the noise. Shapes move through the sparse grasses, illuminated by the encroaching day. Antlers, their many points polished to a shine, resting proudly atop…. _Two_ heads? Large ears flick back and forth nervously, listening for danger. It is a buck, but unlike any she has ever seen. The does following behind him are much the same, in every way like deer… save for two heads where there should only be one. She can see their hides are patchy, marked with scabs and sores. Whatever has gone wrong with these creatures, it is affecting more than their DNA. Unsure of whether they are hostile, or timid like deer would normally be, she shrinks back behind the car until the animals have passed by. To escape the Institute’s clutches only to be stomped to death by a two-headed stag would be a hilarious end. One she would rather not meet.

The light is shifting, changing, and when she looks up again she sees clouds have begun to obscure the horizon and dwindling moon. Thick, opaque ones. She can smell the presence of ozone, moisture. A curtain of rainfall is brushing the far-off hills. Judging by the still-damp earth and the fomenting storm, she has chosen the rainy season to make her escape. Wonderful. She has no coat, only this one-armed jumpsuit and blood slippers. The air is chill, and she would guess it to be early spring. March, perhaps. Or early April. For once, the useless information in her head is not so useless. She steps out from amongst the cars, focusing again on the ruins in the distance. People or not, from the looks of the sky she will need shelter at the very least. She sets her jaw and resumes her journey.

-

Her hopes of finding anyone willing to help her are dashed as soon as she is close enough to truly see the buildings. Crumbling, ruined. Just like everything else. Caved in roofs, scattered bricks, fractured streets. War. That is the only thing she can think of that would explain such desolation. War, and possibly repeated bombings. Radiation would also explain the mutated deer, and the absence of human life. She wonders how long ago this occurred, and if the lingering radiation is enough to endanger her. With the chems still affecting her, she wouldn’t know if she was sick. She feels far too good to detect anything of note. When the chems wear off, she’ll have more to worry about than radiation sickness. Withdrawal is going to be a bitch without anyone to help her through it.

The first drops of rain begin to patter down, splashing any exposed skin. She frowns, casting her eyes about for anywhere that might offer shelter. An old store seems to have most of its roof intact, the sign proclaiming _Gift Shop_ hanging down, only one bolt left to hold it to the faded red brick. She approaches it with caution. If there are mutated deer, there could be other things. Creatures less peaceably inclined than herbivores. Without weapons, avoidance is preferable to confrontation.

Broken glass is scattered across the entryway to the store, and she places each foot perfectly flat, careful to avoid most of the shards. The shelves are still littered with dust-covered stuffed animals, tossed about haphazardly. Several dozen button eyes scrutinize her silently, and she gets the eerie sense they are following her. A stand with postcards, the metal of it rusted, remains in one corner. Most of the postcards are on the floor, the images on them long since faded with time and the abuse of elements. There is a rack with tee shirts and hats. She inspects them, and smiles when she sees the print of an American flag on the stiff fabric of one. Something familiar. Her hand rises, unbidden, fingertips grazing the jumpsuit where her tattoo lies beneath. Well, it would do. Wearing so much bright white in such a dark and destroyed world will only make her an easier target. She unzips her jumpsuit, peeling it down to her waist and bunching it as neatly as possible about her hips. She shakes the faded tee shirt, coughing at the dust that rises and clouds the air, before pulling it over her head. It fits snugly across her wide shoulders, about her biceps. The once vivid navy blue is now more gray than anything, the fabric unyielding and moth-eaten… but she looks a little less like a beacon.

She rummages through the rest of the items. Tattered magazines, binoculars, rusted canned goods and petrified snacks of assorted variety. Not much of use. She looks at her feet, frowns, and resorts to wrapping them with strips of fabric from cannibalized tee shirts. It’s better than nothing, for now. At the very least she will be able to run when the time comes.

At the back of the store she finds a small bathroom. It takes throwing all her weight into it, but she manages to force the door open. The bones of a skeleton propped against the inside of the door scatter as it swings open, and she finds herself staring into the empty sockets of a dead man. A name tag, still clipped to the tattered remains of his vest, proclaims him to be _Roy, Assistant Manager._ She shudders, averting her eyes. No doubt he sought shelter, hoping the solid door and small room would be enough to protect him from whatever happened outside. He was wrong, clearly. Radiation is a rather unforgiving house guest. She pushes the remnants aside with her foot, mumbling _Sorry, Roy,_ as she does so. Above the sink, there is a small medicine cabinet. The mirror is clouded with age, filthy with layers of dust and god knows what else, but she rubs at it with the hem of her tee shirt out of curiosity. Until now, she hasn’t seen her own face beyond the reflection in X6’s glasses. 

The woman staring back at her is not a stranger. She realizes this as she carefully inspects each detail. She knows herself, and seeing this reflection is like meeting an old friend on the street after many long years. The dark auburn hair atop her head is coming in thick and unruly. It forms a soft, diaphanous halo about her skull. Her brows are the same color, bold and drawn low over two piercing eyes. They are perhaps the most unique thing about her. Half dark blue, half light blue, and shot-through with flecks of lavender. Strange eyes, somehow… unnatural. Something flickers in her subconscious, gone before she can seize upon it. She lets it go, suddenly too weary to care. Fine lines spider the outside edges of her eyes, engrave themselves at the corners of her mouth. She has a face that smiled often, before cryostasis and the white walls of the Institute stole that from her. She grins experimentally, and it is as crooked as she imagined it to be. A hardly visible scar on her cheek ripples at the movement, and she decides it is damage to the tissue rather than lack of effort causing the askance effect. She runs her fingers over the scar. It is smooth, faded to nearly match her skin. The oldest of her scars. She wishes she knew where she got it.

A strange sadness comes over her, and she feels suddenly and quite irrationally angry at herself. A sense of self-loathing and fury so pervasive it threatens to choke her. She turns away from the woman in the mirror, returning her attention to the scattered items around Roy’s remains. Cans of purified water, a first aid kit. The latter grabs her attention, and she crouches to retrieve the small white box. She flips it open, rummaging through. A dose of Med-X, a Stimpak. Gauze, a suture kit, an electrolyte pack. This will come in handy, no doubt. She returns the items to the box, shutting and latching the lid once more. Thunder rumbles loudly overhead, and she can hear the deluge begin in earnest. Out there, she risks being soaked and potential hypothermia. Here, she will stay dry but risks being found and dragged back to her prison. She considers her options, and decides to remain in place. At the very least until the storm lets up. Her stomach growls, but she has seen nothing guaranteed as edible beyond the cans of water. Even those she eyes dubiously. Could something that old still be safe to drink?

She decides against dinner. Chances are she will only throw up anything she eats. There are stairs leading up to another level, and she begins her ascent. The ancient wood creaks and groans beneath her, and she wonders if they will hold beneath her weight. Surprisingly, they hold. Her head emerges in a loft area. Bookshelves line the walls, though much of their books are scattered on the floor from the force of the attack long ago. Gloomy light filters in through a broken window, and she can see the rain slashing through the air outside. There is an old tufted armchair next to it, burst at several seams. There is another skeleton lying face-down on the rug beside the chair. The rug is discolored beneath the remains, speaking of the months of decomposition. No doubt this poor bastard died shortly after _Roy_ did _._ One skeletal hand still lies over the stock of a shotgun, and the spent shell on the rug paints a clear enough picture for her. Roy died from the after effects of the bomb. This person didn’t. No doubt they were sick, or injured, and sought relief the only way they could find it. Radiation poisoning is a hell of a way to die. She knows this, though no related memories surface.

Gently, she lifts the bony hand away from the shotgun and retrieves the weapon. Fluidly, as though she has done it hundreds of thousands of times before, she checks the chamber. Empty. She cycles the action, loading a new shell into the chamber. She considers a test fire, but decides against it. There is no telling who - or what - may still lurk in this ruined town. The sound of a gunshot would only be a homing beacon for any nasties nearby. For now, she will hope the weapon still works after all this time. At the very least, it has been kept safe and dry. The action is smooth, and the black anodized surface is intact and without rust. She slings it over her shoulder and continues her inspection of the loft. It appears this was an area to take breaks and relax. A table is covered in old magazines, several Nuka-Cola bottles tipped over, and ancient crayons. She crouches, picking up a black crayon. The surface is milky, dusty. Oxidized over the years. She draws the point of it over the table’s surface, and smiles at the streak of wax left behind. 

She leans closer, swiping the magazines and empty bottles out of the way. She scribbles with the crayon carefully, until the letters are formed. Her handwriting is abysmal, and she is fairly certain she can’t blame the media at hand for it. She stands when her work is finished, eyeing the bold, large words proudly.

  
  


**ANDY WAS HERE. SUCK IT, DIRECTOR**

She returns to the worn chair, lowering herself onto the uneven cushion. The batting is still somewhat soft. Far more comfortable than the hardwood floor, at least. She leans back, resting the shotgun across her thighs, and places her wrapped feet on the coffee table. She will stay awake as long as she can, in case anyone comes a-knocking in the midst of the wailing storm outside. She is fairly certain X6 or the others like him won’t be stopped by a little rain, no matter how torrential. _Please don’t make me fight you,_ she begs silently, not without sorrow. _I kind of like you, pal._ Whatever his station in the Institute, she is fairly sure it is involuntary. That if he were to run, as she has, he would be shot on sight.

Hours tick by, and as the storm continues its assault against the world outside, her eyes begin to droop. The adrenaline that spurred her onward has left her, and the grip of the drugs in her system returns. She is loopy, sleepy, and though she continues to jerk her head back upright, she eventually caves. Her eyes flutter closed, her head tilts back, and she sleeps.

\---

Have a copious amount of Andy art, now that I've finally described her properly and no longer have to hoard it.


	5. Seeing Double

She wakes to the staccato of gunfire. Bolting upright, shouldering the shotgun, she does a quick sweep of the loft. Adrenaline blazes through her, diminishing but not defeating the throbbing ache behind her eyes. The chems have worn off. Fuck. Sunlight is streaming through the broken window, and she dares to look out over the ruined town. The sounds of combat are close. Perhaps a couple blocks away. The real question is who is shooting at who? She doesn’t plan to find out. The sway of the shotgun’s muzzle reminds her of the fact she is shaking, and that sweat is beading on her forehead and upper lip. Double fuck. She lowers the gun, propping it against the chair and opening the little medical kit once more. Med-X. That should take the edge off, enough for her to get the hell out of here. She removes the protective cap, eyeing the swirling purple contents inside the syringe with some contempt, before plunging the needle into her upper arm. 

The effect is nearly instantaneous. The roaring ocean in her ears subsides, followed by a cessation of the shaking in her limbs. The headache recedes, however reluctantly, maintaining just enough of a foothold that she is sure it will return with a vengeance. She feels… Good. Warm, fluid, boneless. She looks at the words on the coffee table, written crudely in ancient waxy glory, and chuckles to herself. Whether they catch her or not, a piece of her defiance will always remain behind. Suck it,  _ Director.  _ She pockets the crayon. A memento of this stop.

Shotgun raised cautiously, she makes her way back down the protesting stairs. She makes a vague mental note to inspect her injured foot, later. There is no pain where the sharp stick scored it. It can’t have healed overnight. That would be… nuts. Like the rest of this situation. The shop is empty. Beyond the unhinged door, sunlight gleams off wet asphalt and concrete. The gunfire sounds closer, and disturbingly… there is less of it. As though many of the people manning the guns have been silenced. Fuck. She exits the store, keeping the brick at her back, and moves away from the encroaching combat. Where to go from here? She could follow the road, in the hopes of finding somewhere populated. That would be the smart thing to do. Cross-country, the rags wrapped about her feet and seven shotgun shells won’t go far. Especially not if there are worse things than deer out there. There is a loud boom, and she recognizes the sound. A frag grenade. Right, no more playing around. She begins to run, feeling somehow excited. Focused. It is almost as though her body is relishing all this. Where she should feel fear, or panic, she only feels a sense of welcome. A bizarre sensation of... homecoming. She remembers her dream of the battlefield, and the surety in the thought that it was what she was born to do.

She is nearing the edge of town. There is a fence that appears to be a mix of junk, razor wire, and pinioned corpses barricading the street. She reacts quickly when several figures step into view. She ducks down an alley, pressing herself flat to the worn siding and cursing herself under her breath for stumbling so carelessly along. When no bullets answer her presence, she realizes they have not seen her. Not yet. She can hear boots on the cracked pavement, approaching. Voices, too. Surly and coarse.

“What the fuck is going on over there?” One voice demands, deep and authoritative.

A woman answers, with a voice made hoarse by years of smoking. “Before they went radio silent, Preacher said they had two unknowns appear and start shooting. Laser weapons, he said, and definitely not traders.”

“Preacher better be fuckin’ dead if he let them through the perimeter,” the first voice snarls. “Let’s check it out.”

She is moments away from being seen. She eyes the rusted out pickup truck nearby, and decides it’s as good of a place as any to hide. Slinging the shotgun onto her back, she drops to the ground and shimmies under the ancient vehicle. Seconds after establishing herself, three sets of boots pass by. She can see filthy denim, worn leather, frayed laces. Clothing as faded and distressed as the rest of this world. She watches from her hideout, body tensed and ready to crawl out and run once more, when laser fire erupts from down the street. The woman is the first to fall, dropping to the asphalt with a smoking hole burned through her forehead. Her eyes are wide, staring, looking directly at Andy as they dim. The other two shout in alarm, returning fire and running for cover. Neither of them make it. She hears the thud of each of their bodies hitting the ground as they, too, are gunned down. Whoever is firing is deadly accurate. She can smell singed hair, burned meat. Scents that are as familiar as the face in the mirror. 

She remains perfectly still. There is no chance of running now. Whoever shot the three strangers is approaching. She scoots further back, afraid they will catch sight of her beneath the pickup. Two sets of boots appear, and she identifies them immediately. Boots she has seen before. Black leather boots, black pants. Long leather coats that hang to mid-calf. She can’t see their faces, but it doesn’t matter. If they spot her under here, she is either dead or caught. Well, shit. It was a good run. She has seven shells with the Director’s name on them. Might as well make them count. She’ll save the last one for herself, if need be, but there is no way in hell she will be returning to that tiny white room.

“All signs have led in this direction,” a smooth, cool voice observes, stopping beside the dead woman. A voice she recognizes. “Perhaps these humans have intersected our target and killed her, as they have killed all the other humans passing through.”

“No,” another voice, equally cold replies. “You saw the gift shop. She is here somewhere. We only just missed her, I am sure of it. Search the surrounding buildings. I will not return to Father empty-handed.”

The two sets of boots separate, one going on ahead and the other staying in place. Hesitating, listening. She focuses on her breathing, taking shallow and quiet gulps of air. Finally, the second pair of boots moves. They pass the pickup truck, entering the house instead. She hears the sounds of rummaging, doors opening and closing, searching, and debates making a break for it. Her instinct is telling her to stay put, but the part of her that is still an animal screams for her to run. She silences it with her will, watching for the boots to emerge again. She hears the creak of them on the porch, dilapidated planks groaning beneath the weight of someone very large and very dangerous. Someone, perhaps, she considered a friend. The Courser approaches the pickup once more, crouching beside it. She sees gloved fingers trace the outline of something. A scuff or scrape on the cracked concrete, perhaps. Enough to paint a picture for anyone looking.

And then a rustle, leather creasing and wrinkling, as a body is lowered to the ground beside the pickup truck. She isn’t breathing, can’t breathe. Her lungs are frozen in place, just as her body is. The shotgun is on her back, and she can’t bring herself to pull it forward again. She can only stare, paralyzed, as a familiar face comes into view. Eyes as forbidding a gray as the recently retreated storm gaze calmly at her from a stoic face.

“Andy,” X6 says in greeting. “I was not sure I would see you again.”

“Well,” she answers, licking her lips, “Here I am. You've seen me. So, are you gonna shoot me or continue with the small talk?”

“Our orders are not to kill you, though Father has given the authorization to retrieve you by any means necessary.”

“I don’t want to fight you.” Her voice is almost desperate. Pleading. “But I can’t go back to that room, and those horrible people. I can’t.”

“I know.” There is surprising gentleness to the words. A gentleness she has never heard from him. He regards her somberly for a long moment, brows slowly drawing together and forming two neat lines between them.

“Kill me,” she says. “Tell them I fought you, and that it was an accident. I’d rather be dead than in their hands again.”

He shakes his head. “Coursers do not make mistakes. We do not miss. They already suspect I am compromised.” 

_ Compromised. Because he gives a shit about her.  _ Stupidly, of its own accord, she feels her lip quiver. She bites down on it, almost viciously, to still it’s betrayal. His eyes fix on the offending part, then return to meet her gaze.

“However,” he continues, returning his glasses to his face, “At times, my glasses grow quite dirty in the field. It can be difficult to make out certain details. Sometimes… A shadow beneath a vehicle is only that. A shadow.”

With that, he rises to his feet once more. She stares at the place he occupied, stunned, blinking rapidly to combat the sudden moisture in her eyes. When he speaks again, it is from the front of the pickup truck, spoken to the air before him rather than the woman hiding beneath the vehicle.

“Strange. The gate on the far wall was left open by it’s keepers.”

And then his boots are retreating, walking in the opposite direction of the wall. She watches and listens until she can neither see nor hear them. She is almost too stunned to move, too boneless with relief to crawl back out from her hiding place. But she rallies herself, demanding one last surge of adrenaline, and crawls on her stomach until she is clear of the rusted pickup. As an afterthought, she spares precious seconds to wrench the boots off the dead woman’s feet.  _ Not like she’s gonna need them, anyway.  _ They are too small, pinching the toes of her larger feet, but it is better than nothing. She jams the woman’s revolver into the pocket of her jumpsuit as well. Six revolver rounds, seven shotgun shells. Her odds of survival are increasing. Boots on and better-armed, she runs towards the open gate at a dead sprint, half expecting him to change his mind. To pursue her, and shoot her legs out from under her. No pursuit comes, and her newly booted feet make next to no sound on the rough asphalt beneath them. She realizes she is crying, and they are tears of relief and gratitude.

She runs until she thinks her lungs might burst. Whatever condition she might have been in before cryo, the time trapped in the Institute has left her out of shape and weak. She has no plan, no food, no water. Only the shotgun on her back and a shitty tee shirt from a gift shop.

-

  
  


She follows the road for a long time, mindful of every trace she might leave to be followed. When she has put more than a few miles between herself and the strange town, she opts for cross-country. Her choice is not without peril. As she suspected, mutated deer are not the only denizens of this landscape. The first night she camps, eyes gleam in the darkness just beyond the firelight. Reflective eyes. Dogs, perhaps. Or wolves. None come close enough for her to see, held at bay by the roaring fire - but she can feel them watching her, hear their snaps and snarls and the pacing of their feet around and around her makeshift camp. Again, she feels no fear. Only a sense of being prepared, almost eager, for their attack. Stupid, considering her shit odds. One wild dog, maybe. But a whole pack? She’d be dinner. She does not sleep, not until the early morning hours when the headache returns with a vengeance and leaves her no other choice.

She wakes late in the morning feeling as though death has come to claim her. She can’t stop shivering. Her skin is damp, clammy, and not only from morning dew. The fire has dwindled to embers, and she forces herself up onto hands and knees. She crawls towards it, arms trembling and threatening to give out under her. Cold. So fucking _cold._ She places a few more logs on the smoldering embers, blowing on them gently until smoke begins to rise once more. The smell of damp wood burning turns her stomach unexpectedly, and she scrabbles away from the fire to empty the meagre contents of her stomach into the prickly wasteland grass. She remains hunched over, shaking and shivering, until the spasms in her stomach stop and she is able to return to the fire. There is no Med-X. No relief. Either she will pull through this, or die trying.

Eventually, she musters the strength to rise. She slings her shotgun and retrieves the revolver. She can’t keep going like this. She needs water, most urgently. Then, perhaps food. Though the thought of stomaching anything makes the nausea well up in her once more, and she claps a hand over her mouth with a groan until it passes. 

Her search does not yield any water source, or food. Despite the recent heavy rain, she appears to be in the flattest area of… wherever she is, and minus a few filthy puddles, there is nothing. By the end of the second day, she is so thirsty she considers drinking from one of them. No doubt it will make her incredibly sick, but could things get much worse? She encounters a particularly nasty creature while searching for a decent campsite. An enormous insect of some kind. If not for the buzz of it’s wings giving her warning, she might not have ducked out of the toxic spittle in time. As shaky as she is, as weak as her limbs are, it takes three shots with the revolver to drop the flying nightmare. Gasping, leaning over the carapace, she vomits again. At this point, she might as well be vomiting dust. There is nothing in her stomach, and only bile comes up.

She doesn’t remember building the fire, and she is so cold it might as well not be burning brightly before her. She fades in and out of consciousness, adding a log occasionally to keep the fire going but otherwise somewhat dead to the world. She curls up on the ground, shivering so hard her teeth chatter, and stares into the licking flames. There is no sound here but the crackling fire, the pop of sparks drifting skyward… and then something moves beyond the fire, in the darkness ringing her. She makes no effort to rise. If the dogs have returned, let them have her. Better to die here, beneath a sky full of stars, than in a sterile room where every move is watched and analyzed. There is freedom in death being of her choosing, and not by the  _ Director’s  _ orders.

She hears footsteps approaching, the crunch of pine needles beneath boots. A figure appears, bathed in the golden light of the campfire. She is too delirious to react to the sight of herself standing before her.

“Hey, Andy,” her double says, lowering herself into a crouch beside the fire.

“I’m hallucinating,” Andy replies, shivering.

“Yep,” Double Andy replies, chewing on a stem of grass thoughtfully. “And dying, too, if you don’t get your ass up and do something about it.”

“W-what the f-fuck am I supposed to do about it?” Andy demands, suddenly angry.

“No need to get bitchy, I’m only trying to help.” Double Andy is disgustingly bright and cheery for a hallucination. “Think back to the last thing you saw on the road. The green sign. What did it say?”

“You don’t need me t-to tell you,” she snaps. “You’re me. You s-saw it.”

Double Andy grins crookedly. “Louder,” she singsongs, “For all the class to hear.”

Angry groans, squeezes her eyes shut as she racks her brain. “It s-said… Cambridge, f-five miles.”

“So close to help, and your dumb ass chose to wander off into the hills instead. Have I taught you nothing?”

Andy snorts. “You’re a hallucination. You haven’t t-taught me shit.”

“Yes and no,” Double Andy shrugs amiably. “I’m you, but I’m the part of you that remembers things.  _ Unlike _ you, I’m actually useful. There was a time you would have killed those feral dogs bare-handed, skinned them, and roasted them over a fire. Yum, yum. Not just huddled for warmth and waited for them to kill  _ you.” _

“You’re incredibly annoying,” she shoots back. “And unhelpful.”

Double Andy rises from her crouch, looking down at her with a mixture of pity and disgust. 

“Find your fucking spine, Andy, wherever you misplaced it. Before it’s too late.”

The fire has died by the time morning arrives. She is cold, stiff, soaked through. She sucks at the fabric of her filthy shirt, desperate for water, but it is a fruitless endeavor. Thirst is becoming an all-consuming thing, and she is dimly aware she will die without water. Sooner, rather than later. A heavy fog has rolled in, the final note to a rather depressing dirge. Here lies Andy, She Never Found Her Spine. She is fairly certain she can find her way back to the road from here. However scrambled eggs her brain might be, she has a clear sense of direction. She retraces the little deer trail she had been following to get here. She is slow, stumbling, weak. The shotgun on her back feels like it might be a thousand pounds, pulling her back. Weighing her down. Drawing her into the grasping black arms of oblivion. It would be easier to let the wasteland take her, wouldn’t it? What does she have to gain by surviving? A life of being hunted by X6?

At long last, pavement meets her feet. She considers falling to her knees and kissing the rough surface, but decides against it. If she does, she isn’t sure she will get up again. She has no idea if she is closer to Cambridge than the sign she remembers, or farther from it. Everything is obscured by fog. She continues to stumble along, fatigued muscles twitching and cramping in protest. 

“This is fucking nuts,” she proclaims to the broken pieces of asphalt and the skeletal trees and the rusted out remnants of a long-dead world. “I’m following the instructions of a hallucination. Holy shit.”

She starts to laugh, and can’t seem to stop. Mirth continues to bubble out of her, rising in volume from a chuckle to a bellow to a gleeful cackle. She sounds like something out of a book of children’s fables. A wicked witch on the path to redemption, perhaps. Step by step, she draws closer to Cambridge. If the Coursers are ahead of her… if they are combing over the place… she’s walking directly into their arms. Pavement gives way to old railroad tracks, and she follows them for a time. She spies a railroad bridge, the cars of the defunct train either tipped over on their sides or piled atop each other in rectangles of crumpled, rusted metal. To cross the bridge, she will have to climb over or under them. Neither of which she has the strength for.

Despair creeps over her once more, as pervasive and absolute as it once was within the four white walls of her prison.  _ I’m not going to make it,  _ she tells herself, unable to stop the thought.  _ I’m going to die out here.  _ The realization saps the last of her strength. Her body aches for water. Her head is pounding so loudly she can hear nothing but the pulsing beat of her heart in her ears.  _ Boom, boom, boom. _ She imagines it slowing,  _ boom… boom… boom. _ She does fall to her knees, this time. And then she pitches forward onto her hands, rocky soil digging into her palms. She curls up on her side amidst the suffocating fog, arms wrapped around her waist. How silly, to feel so guilty over disappointing a hallucination. 

“Yeah, Andy, find your fucking spine,” she mumbles to herself. 

Shapes move in the fog, and her heartbeat rises in crescendo until it shakes the very earth beneath her.  _ Boom, boom, boom. _

“Fuck off, Double Andy,” she manages to shout at the outline of a person, drawing nearer still through the swirling blanket of mist. “I don’t want your fucking help. Look where it led us.”

She starts to laugh again. She laughs until tears are rolling down her cheeks, and her empty belly aches, and continues to guffaw even as Double Andy - wearing a different face, now - kneels down on the gravel beside her, and cups her chin in a gloved hand.

“Sir, she doesn’t have long by the looks of it,” Not Double Andy says to someone else. Someone out of view. “What should we do with her?”

Andy stops laughing. She grows suddenly very still, and her fevered eyes shift from the slender woman beside her to the enormous shape materializing at her back. A mountain of steel, with an emblem painted across the chest. Power armor. She recognizes it, something kindling in the back of her mind. She has worn it, or some like it, before.

“She’s not a raider,” a deep voice says thoughtfully. The Steel Mountain can speak. “And she’s not a caravanner or trader. Whoever she is, she’s in trouble. We will take her back with us, and see if it’s not too late to do something for her.”

“I don’t think she’s in any shape to walk,” Not Double Andy says, shining a light in first one and then the other of Andy’s eyes. “She’s delirious, dehydrated.”

“Leave that to me,” Steel Mountain answers. “Rhys, you take point. Keep your eyes peeled in case there are more feral ghouls stumbling around in this fog.”

“Yes, sir!” Rhys answers from somewhere Andy can’t see. There is a rumble, the earth beneath her shifting, as two steel gauntlets lift her from where she is lying. She is too tired to care, too thirsty and hungry to protest. Whoever these people are, they’re not Coursers. That’s good enough for her.

“Thanks, Double Andy,” she murmurs, before the world goes dark once more.


	6. Paladin Danse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she finallyyyyyyyyy meets Danse. woohoo!  
> \-------------------------------

For the first time in days, she is hot. Way, way too hot. She wakes slowly, propping herself up on her elbows and blinking at her surroundings. The room is dark, lit by a flickering overhead light that appears to be on its last leg of life. She appears to be in some sort of office, converted into a medical room. There is a cot beneath her, and she is zipped into a thick green sleeping bag. No wonder she feels like an eggroll frying in hot oil. _Sweet and sour sauce, please._ A bag of saline hangs on a stand beside her, the drip tube snaking up to meet the needle taped to her arm. The sight of it makes her stomach lurch. Her breath catches in her throat, and in a frenzied moment of panic, she tears at the tape and pulls the needle free.  _ Never again, never again,  _ a small voice cries from the back of her mind. Only when the needle is out, left to drip whatever fluid it was delivering into her veins onto the floor instead, does she remember to exhale. A sound at the doorway makes her jerk her head up, body tensed and ready to fight.

“You’re a tough cookie,” the woman in the doorway says. “I knew you were in rough shape when we found you, but… once I got a real good look at you, I couldn’t believe you weren’t already dead. Either someone or something is looking out for you, or you’re every bit the tank you appear to be. I’m Scribe Haylen, by the way. And you are?”

Andy considers her visitor. The woman is a full head shorter than her, at least. Her frame is slender, almost fragile. She is clad in BDUs, which add to her bulk but also diminish her somehow. Her hair - a golden strawberry blonde - is pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. She oozes military, however kindly her eyes sparkle. Andy is fairly certain if the need arose, she could overpower this woman. There is comfort in the knowledge, and she relaxes.

“Andy,” she replies, before disposing of the niceties. “What were you giving me? What’s in the bag?” 

“Nothing nefarious,” Haylen chuckles, raising her hands in surrender. “You were incredibly dehydrated and in full withdrawal when we found you. It’s just saline, I assure you. Though I did give you a dose of Addictol. That cleared up whatever had it’s hooks in you. I wouldn’t recommend resuming the habit.”

“The  _ habit _ was not voluntary,” Andy rolls her eyes, struggling to extricate herself from the cocoon of sweaty doom. In addition to the sleeping bag, she has been clad in grey sweatpants and a great sweatshirt. The sweatshirt says _BoS_ across the chest in bold lettering. No wonder she’s roasting. They bundled her up like she was in the midst of a blizzard. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of her neck.

Haylen cocks her head at that. “I see. Well, I don’t plan on forcing anything on you, except food. IV fluids are no substitution for a proper meal. Do you think you can eat?”

It isn’t until Haylen asks this question that Andy realizes how incredibly hungry she is. Her stomach answers for her, emitting a rather loud and petulant grumble. She gives Haylen a lopsided grin.

“What’s on the menu, doc?”

“Nothing too crazy,” Haylen smiles in return, and Andy sees the flash of dimples. It’s hard not to trust someone with dimples. “Something bland, full of nutrients. I’ll go prepare it for you. In the meantime… If you’re up to it, Paladin Danse would like to debrief you.”

“Debrief me?” Andy asks, raising an eyebrow. “At least he’s buying me dinner, first.”

Haylen snorts loudly, struggling to cover the sound of derision with a cough. “I’ll, ah, send him right in. He can seem… a little stern, when you’re first getting to know him. But he’s honestly a big softie.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replies, not without some small amount of wariness.

Haylen ducks out with another little grin, and Andy returns her attention to her outfit. Pulling the neckline out, she peers down. She seems to be wearing a sports bra of some sort beneath. She wonders how she ended up in such a garment. If the delicate Haylen lifted her and wiggled her into it, or someone else. The mysterious Paladin Danse, perhaps. She is surprisingly without embarrassment at the thought, shrugging to herself. If she was indeed a soldier before losing her memory, then there would be little room for shyness. You ate, shit, showered, and fought side by side when you chose a life like that. She pulls the sweater up and over her head, letting out a sigh of relief as cooler air touches her skin. She pats at herself experimentally.  _ Not bad, not bad.  _ A tank, indeed. The startled clearing of a throat in the doorway draws her attention. 

Paladin Danse stands in the doorway. No, _ fills _ the doorway. His head is perhaps two inches away from brushing against the top of the frame. His shoulders are wide, powerfully built, a reflection of the rest of him. This is a man who is no stranger to regular exercise… and lots of it. He is wearing a black tee shirt and camouflage BDUs, paired with black combat boots. His hair is thick, dark, long enough to speak of him being a bit past due on a haircut for military standards. His face is handsome, made of strong lines and a generous mouth. The length of his stubble tells her he is perhaps two weeks without a shave. More than anything, he looks tired. There are shadows under his eyes, new lines forming at his mouth and between the bold eyebrows. His eyes are averted, staring fixedly at some point to the side of her. She finds herself somewhat thunderstruck by how  _ astronomically _ good looking he is, and it takes her a moment to recover herself. Apparently she’s not dead below the waist, at least.

“Perhaps I should come back later,” he begins, sounding surprisingly awkward for such a mountain of a man.

“Nonsense,” Andy says cheerily, sitting cross-legged on her cot. “If you come back later, you’ll interrupt my dinner. That would be very rude of you, as my host.”

His eyes flick up to her face, and when he sees the devilish glint in her gaze, he seems to relax a little. Realizing she is, of course, deliberately making him squirm. She can’t tell him this, being a stranger, but she is rather relieved to be around people who aren’t hell-bent on interrogating her, experimenting on her, or turning her broken brain into lab jelly. The closest she has been to such mental freedom was her conversations with X6, and even he was... restrained. Cautious, unflappable. Unable to be himself, with so many eyes on them at all times. So, whatever comes next, she plans on enjoying teasing this poor soul. It’s balm for the soul. Assuming one has a soul, if everything that made them who they are is dust in the wind. 

She hears the subtle rush of a sigh leaving him, before he steps into the room and sits down on a metal folding chair facing her. It creaks beneath his weight, but manages to hold him somehow. He leans forward, dark eyes intent on her.

“I am Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel.”

She raises her eyebrows, mimicking his formal tone. “And I am Lady Andy of the Irradiated Wastes, but you can just call me Andy.”

“We found you in quite a state,” he begins. His voice is low, mellow. Pleasant. Like the first rumble of thunder over distant hills. “Haylen said another few hours and you might not have made it. What I would like to know is… What were you doing out there, in that condition? No supplies, low munitions, suffering from severe withdrawal and dehydration. A strange set of circumstances to find yourself in.”

“I’m going to hazard a guess here and say you have a theory about me,” she answers, folding her arms. She isn’t sure how much she dares reveal. If these people are associated with the Institute in any way, she could be in worse trouble than before.

“I do,” he agrees, leaning back in the chair and eyeing her with a guarded expression. “I believe you are running from something or someone. The track marks and bruising on your arm tells me you were either dosed or were dosing yourself for some time, wherever you came from. Your state of dress when found tells me you left in a hurry, no doubt under the strictures of a window of opportunity. The shape you are in, as well as the numerous scars on your body, tell me you are no stranger to combat… Though as of yet you have made no sign of aggression towards myself or my people. You are composed, intelligent. That tells me you are likely a soldier, or contracted muscle. Disciplined, rather than something like a raider. My best guess right now is perhaps a Gunner, though that would not explain your apparel.”

“Well look at you, detective,” she smiles. “You should charge people for these kinds of readings.”

He ignores her joke, shaking his head slightly. “What I want to know is whether or not I am endangering my team by harboring you. I imagine whoever your pursuers are, they’re still looking for you, and it may be only a matter of time before they are knocking at the door. Who were you running from, and why?”

She folds her arms over her chest. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but… I don’t know if I can trust you, and no doubt you feel the same about me. You are correct in your assertion that someone will be looking for me. As such, I don’t plan to impose on your hospitality much longer. If you can spare some supplies, maybe some water and food… it would be appreciated. The rest I will figure out as I go. As you pointed out, I don’t have anything. I’m at the mercy of your generosity.”

He lifts a hand in protest, brow furrowing. “It is not my goal to throw you back out there to fend for yourself. I am only trying to better understand the situation. Since the moment we arrived in the Commonwealth, we’ve been constantly under fire. We were sent here on a recon mission, but our supplies are running low and we have been unable to get a distress call through to our superiors. I am willing to aid you, but I need to see the bigger picture first. I need to know if you are worth the risk.”

She regards him quietly.  _ Am I? _ She asks herself.  _ What if I was a monstrous human being before my memories were taken from me? For all I know, I was a cold-blooded mercenary who would gun this man down for a stack of cash. _

“I can’t tell you I’m worth it,” she answers honestly. “Frankly, I… don’t know much about myself at all. Even if I did, how do I know you’re not one of the bad guys?”

“Maybe I should start with explaining my organization,” he offers. “Our order seeks to understand the nature of technology. It's power. It's meaning to us as humans… And we fight to secure that power from those who would abuse it. We are here to help the people of the Commonwealth, not harm them.”

“You steal shit from people?” She asks, raising a brow. “Steal it, and keep it for yourselves? The ol’ protect-the-people-from-themselves bit, huh?”

“It is not as simple as that.” There is an edge to his voice, and she sees the line of his mouth tighten. Her gift for offending people seems to be intact, at least. “You're implying that we do this to benefit ourselves. That could not be farther from the truth. Before the Great War, science and technology became more of a burden than a benefit. The atom bomb, bio-engineered plagues, and FEV are clear examples of the horrors that technological advancement had wrought .  We're here to make sure nothing like that ever happens again.”

“Sounds noble enough. Look, I’m just... trying to feel you out, pal,” she says with a shrug. “It’s not personal. The people who are after me… They’re bad news.”

“Tell me about them.”

She searches his eyes, and is surprised to see kindness in them. Whatever her hesitation, the man sitting on that dilapidated chair like an elephant on a footstool is not her enemy. Not like…  _ Them.  _ She feels strangely safe, even knowing Coursers are combing the wasteland looking for her at this very moment. She sucks in a long draught of air, holds it for a moment.

“I should start from the beginning. I was… Frozen, in a vault. Some kind of cryostasis, that kept me pickled for the last… two hundred and ten years”

Danse’s eyes widen in surprise. “You’re from…  _ before _ the war?”

“Apparently so,” she agrees. “Though I don’t remember anything from that life. The doctors think the cryo process damaged my brain somehow.  _ Functional amnesia,  _ they called it. Which was their way of saying they had no fucking idea why or how it happened.”

“These doctors… were they with the people chasing you?” He prompts. He has the look of a man who has caught the scent of something he greatly desires.

“Yes. It seemed to be some kind of research facility. I thought it was a prison at first, but… With the exception of their guards and orderlies, they were all scientists and doctors. They pulled me from my cryo pod and spent weeks pumping me so full of drugs I didn’t know which way was up and which was down. I guess they were deciding what to do with me. After that, they kept dosing me… but in low enough amounts that I could stay awake. They wanted me docile, not immobile. They ran scans, all kinds of tests. They tried to restore my memories through tactile therapy. None of it worked.”

“They were desperate to figure out what was in your head,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her. “I wonder why.”

“It had something to do with their Director. His family was in the vault with me, from what I gathered. Maybe he wanted to know what happened to them? Maybe I… Did something to them. I don’t know.” She spreads her palms in a helpless gesture. “He seemed to think the file they pulled on me was only false information. A smoke screen. Apparently not even my name is real.”

“This place… Where you were held. Did they have a name for it?” He does not try to hide the note of excitement carried with his words.

“They called it the Institute.”

“I thought as much,” he says, nodding as though he knew it all along.

“You know them?” She feels her muscles tense in response to the renewed alarm in her gut.  _ How does he know of them?  _

“They are the reason I - we - are here,” he admits. “They're a group of scientists who went underground when the Great War started. Since then, they have spent the last few decades littering the Commonwealth with their technological nightmares.”

“Technological nightmares? Like what? Giant robot vampires?”

Did she imagine the slight eye roll?

“Synths. Artificial humans. We were first made aware of their existence back in the Capital Waste. They're an abuse of technology created by the Institute. Abominations meant to ‘improve’ upon humanity.”

She groans inwardly, remembering all her jabs at X6 about being a robot. Fuck’s sake. If she ever ran into him again, she owed him an apology. For the filthy antennae joke she once cracked, if nothing else.

“So… What’s your aim, here, then?” She asks. “Find a way into their spooky sanctum and steal all their robots from them? Turn them into kitchen maids?”

“Destroy them,” he answers. “They simply can't be allowed to exist.”

She thinks of X6’s warm hand held in hers. Of his cloud-gray eyes, and the way the corners of his mouth lift just enough that she can see the whisper of a smile. His way of laughing on the inside, when she’s being an idiot. And then she thinks of those eyes going dim, and the corners of his mouth never smiling again, and finds herself wanting to slap the man in the chair across the face for even thinking of hurting her friend. Danse seems to sense the disquiet in her, mistaking it for fear.

“The Brotherhood will prevail in our mission,” he says in an assuring manner. “We have considerable resources at our disposal. Once I find what I need in ArcJet, we will be able to boost our signal enough to reach the Capital. Help will come, and we will bring the Institute to its knees.”

“That all sounds very… er, heroic and all. But you seem to be assuming all these synths are mindless machines. From my limited experience… They’re not. They seem to have thoughts and feelings just like you or I do.”

Danse shakes his head dismissively. “It’s clever programming, Andy. Nothing more. Don’t let it fool you, or a synth you consider a  _ friend _ may be the last thing you see someday.”

“Well, I suppose… may the best man win. I won’t intervene with your pissing contest. I’m more worried about running  _ away  _ from them than running towards them.”

Danse frowns slightly. “I was hoping perhaps… You might join our cause. You’ve seen what they are capable of. You’ve suffered at their hands, as so many others have. Why not seize on this chance to put an end to their madness?”

“I need to think about it.” Her throat feels suddenly tight. She wonders if it would be possible to extricate X6, take him somewhere safe. Would he even accept such help? How deeply do his ties go with the Institute?

“Of course,” he agrees at once, releasing her from his intense gaze. “There is time. Once the communication is sent, it will take Elder Maxson some time to scramble a response.” He rises from the chair, casting a long shadow over where she sits on the cot. “In the meantime, you are welcome to stay here. I will inform my people of the potential threat. If the Institute wants you, they will have to go through us, first.”

Warmth blooms in her chest at his words. She didn’t expect him to be so… self-sacrificing. Whatever his reasons for offering his protection, she finds it incredibly comforting.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re running off somewhere?” She asks when he darkens the doorway once more. 

“I won’t be gone long,” he replies. “Before we found you, we were en-route to ArcJet systems. Our recon has pointed us to a deep range transmitter, somewhere in the ruin of that building. I must complete the mission, or no help will be coming to the Commonwealth any time soon.”

“You’re going alone?” She demands, skeptical. “What if you run into trouble?”

He smiles for the first time since their meeting. The effect is somewhat astounding, if for no other reason than the way it makes his dark eyes sparkle.

“I am a Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, Andy,” he says. “We  _ are _ the trouble.”

Hmmm. Confident  _ and  _ handsome. Trouble, indeed. He ducks back out into the hallway, and she listens to the sound of his boots retreating. 

“You make friends easily.”

Andy’s blood turns cold in her veins, and she turns her head, reluctant to see the source of the words. Double Andy is sitting on the desk shoved into a corner, cross-legged just as Andy is sitting cross-legged on the cot. Double Andy is tossing a short knife up in the air and catching it again, over and over. She grins at Andy, and it is lopsided. The slender scar gleams in the tremulous light.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Andy points out. “I’m not hallucinating anymore.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Double Andy says with a shrug. “Now that you woke me up, I plan to stick around. Someone has to annoy you as much as you annoy everyone else.”

“Mission accomplished,” Andy mutters. “I’m sick of you already.”

Double Andy juts her lower lip out in a pout, but seems perfectly unperturbed. “I led you to safety, didn’t I? That’s some scant gratitude you’re showing me.”

_ “I  _ led me. Because  _ you’re _ me.”

“Pota-toe pota-to,” Double Andy sneers, before switching to a thoughtful expression. “He reminds you of someone, doesn’t he.”

“One of the shrimpy Institute scientists? He’s a bit large for that. We don’t  _ know  _ anyone, remember? Empty noggin?” She knocks on the side of her head with a closed fist to illustrate her point.

“While I agree on the empty thing,” Double Andy says pointedly, “I’m not talking about the monkeys running the Institute. I’m talking about Callahan.”

_ Callahan.  _ The name she spoke in her sleep. She reaches out for something, anything, but her thoughts are as clouded as the fog she found herself lost in.

“I don’t remember any Callahan,” she sticks her tongue out. “Nice try, though.”

Double Andy looks almost sad. She catches the knife, holding it still in her hand rather than tossing it again. 

“You do. It’s just all jumbled up in there along with the rest of the mess they made.”

“They?” Andy blinks. “Are you going to tell me anything of use, or just spout vague bullshit at me all night?”

“I don’t have any control over it,” Double Andy rolls her eyes. “Don't you get it? I’m you, trying to remember. Honestly, Andy, we were never this stupid before.”

“Andy?” A new voice breaks in, and Andy curses to herself. Haylen is back, and no doubt heard the entirety of her self-inflicted conversation.

“Haylen,” she nods, struggling to remain nonchalant. “I was just running some lines for my upcoming role as a nutjob. Dinner, I take it?” Her eyes stray to the tray in Haylen’s hands. It appears to be… a mountain of white mush accompanying a mushy, grey patty of something that might be meat. Someone on the assembly line had a hell of a time getting creative with salisbury steak and potatoes.

Haylen looks almost relieved at Andy’s admittal to needing a jacket with extra long sleeves. She brightens, setting the tray down beside Andy. When she sits in the same chair Danse recently vacated, it neither creaks nor groans at her presence. 

“Danse left in a fine mood,” Haylen says, resting her chin on the heel of one palm. “Your conversation went well, I take it?”

“You were right about him,” she agrees. “He’s a big overstuffed teddy bear. A little overzealous about hunting down synths, but… I like him.”

“He said to provide anything you needed, should you wish to leave.” Haylen chews her lip. “I hope you’ll stay. If the Institute is after you, the Brotherhood is your best bet at survival.”

“One little recon team is going to protect me from the Institute’s army?” She smiles when she says it, but there is little warmth in the statement. “How many of you are there, Haylen? Four, five?”

“Six,” Haylen answers. “But I don’t mean just us. I mean the rest of them. When Elder Maxson and the others arrive, there will be hundreds of us for the Institute to contend with. We know what we’re doing, Andy. The Brotherhood brought peace to the Capital Wasteland, and they intend to bring peace to the Commonwealth.”

Andy considers her for a long moment. “I’ll stay,” she decides. “If only long enough to meet this fabulous elder of yours. After all this hype, I expect him to be eight feet tall with crab claws for hands.”

Haylen giggles. “You should eat. It won’t be an improvement on the flavor if you let it get cold.”

Andy grimaces, taking a bite of the suspicious while mush first. As she eats, Haylen fills her in on what her memory is missing. The details of the great war, and what the Brotherhood knows of the centuries following the terrible day the bombs dropped. Andy listens, distracted from the rather terrible rations by Haylen’s animated storytelling. She speaks in a high, clear voice. Her small hands flutter like busy birds, weaving a tale of radiation and terrible loss. It feels good to talk to someone. To carry on a conversation without drugs dulling her mind, or the presence of cameras recording her every word. They continue talking hours after the tray is emptied, and it is Andy who now rests her chin in her hands and listens raptly. 

Haylen talks at great length about Paladin Danse, too. This is Andy’s favorite part. It is clear Haylen - and the others, from the sound of it - idolize the man. She tells Andy of his bravery in battle, his cool head. In a lower, more conspiratorial tone, she explains he was recruited rather than born into the Brotherhood, just as she was. The more Haylen tells her about Danse, the more Andy feels a little lightheaded.  _ What a man. _

Haylen would likely have continued pontificating on into the wee hours of morning, if not for the sudden thunder of a firefight beyond the precinct’s doors. In unison, both women fall silent, ears straining to hear the chaos beyond the walls around them.

“We’re under attack,” Haylen shouts, leaping to her feet. She looks down at Andy. “Stay here. Don’t come out until one of us returns.”

Andy is on her feet as soon as Haylen has disappeared down the hall. Like hell she is going to sit here and allow anything to happen to Danse’s people. They’re in danger, and she is the cause of their peril. But first, her sweater. And then she needs to find a weapon. Preferably something with more than six shots of .380 in it.


	7. I’ve Done This Before

Chaos meets her at the door. Here she was, expecting to see a couple cool guys in leather coats murdering her new friends… But that is not what she finds. Over the gunfire, she can hear…  _ snarling. _ Howling. Growls and snapping jaws. Sounds she would normally associate with rabid animals. Instead, she ducks out of the way with barely enough time to avoid a humanoid form wearing tattered rags. The skin is bubbled and melted, like the sides of an old candle. The stomach is bloated, distended, the limbs shriveled and thin. She counts maybe three rotten teeth remaining in the desiccated head, but is fairly certain - as she spins nimbly out of the way - that they would do an efficient job of tearing through her skin nonetheless. So, there are irradiated deer, irradiated dogs, irradiated bugs… and, how delightful, half-mad irradiated humans.

The creature lunges at her again, relentless in its pursuit, and muscle memory seems to take over. She bashes the thing with the butt of the borrowed assault rifle. It careens back, gnarled fingers clawing at air, and she fires a shot square between the thing’s eyes. Adrenaline is flooding through her, and something else. Something like… joy. Her body seems to know what to do, and she gives it the reins. She hears a pained cry, and spins to see another man - Rhys, she would guess - grappling on the steps with another one of the creatures. She fires, and bits of brain and skull rain down on the struggling knight. He curses loudly, fighting to push the dead thing off of himself. And then she is moving again. They are  _ everywhere,  _ pouring from every corner and alley. Howling and screeching like hellhounds in a terrible cacophony.

“Great place to set up camp, huh,” Haylen shouts over the din, before firing two shots into the chest of another wretched creature. “Cambridge is crawling with feral ghouls. I’ve never seen so many at once.”

“I think I might have--” and here she pauses to fire a round into one of the _ghouls._ It is clutching at her ankle, the legs blown off and nowhere to be seen, “--been better off in the fog, if this is how you guys like to party.”

“Sorry!” Haylen laughs, but it is high and nervous. She looks terrified. It is clear she is poorly suited to combat. No wonder she chose the life of a scribe. Not that there is much choice in the matter, just now. It’s fight or die at the moment.

The light mood is quickly dampened by the seriousness of the situation. Ghouls climb over the temporary barricade, through and over the destroyed cars moved to serve as cover. Teeming masses of them roiling from the streets beyond, like rats fleeing before a fire. Only they aren’t fleeing. They’re attacking. Andy feels no despair. The strange glee at doing battle stays with her, and when her rifle runs empty she swings it like a great club instead.  _ Swing batter batter,  _ she thinks as she grins with clenched teeth and feels a jawbone snap beneath the force of the blow. Rhys is injured. She notices this from the corner of her eye. He is attempting to drag himself up the steps of the old precinct with one elbow, while simultaneously firing at ghouls with his service pistol. His uniform is slick with blood, but he doesn’t seem to pay his injury any mind. He just keeps shooting.  _ Brave little bastard.  _

She fights through the horde of ghouls towards him. He sees her, his face twisting in fury. 

“Don’t worry about me!” He roars. “Watch after Haylen. I’ve got this!”

“Sure you do,” she retorts, grasping him by the strap of his pack and hauling him up the remaining stairs. “Men who are bleeding to death always make the best shots.”

He ignores her, instead providing cover fire in the face of her obstinance. She leaves him propped up against the wall by the doors; a position that will be much easier for him to defend. Haylen is giving ground before three ghouls careening towards her, and Andy wades back into the fray. A scream pierces the night air, and even several of the ghouls raise their heads in answer to it. A soldier atop the makeshift sentry platform is being swarmed. Even as she races to his aid, she knows it is too late. She can hear the wet tearing sound of limbs being separated from a body. The crack and snap of bones and ligaments, as half a dozen ghouls shred him with wet tissue paper. There is a strange detachment at the sight and sounds. She registers them, but feels nothing. Only a desire to kill the creatures doing it.

Blessedly, the dying soldier’s rifle is lying atop the corrugated steel several paces away from the churning mob of snarling ghouls. She tosses her empty rifle aside, lifting the heavier weapon. She fires, and crisp red laser fire brightens the night and illuminates the ghastly features of her foes. Distracted from the gurgling mass that was once a human, the ghouls fly at her instead. She runs backwards, firing as she retreats. Five ghouls. Four ghouls. Three ghouls. One launches itself at her, and she pivots out of the way, slamming her elbow into it’s back as it passes her. A stomp of her boot results in the skull bursting like a rotten pumpkin, only the mire clinging to her boot is not made of seeds. Two ghouls. She puts a smoking hole through each of them. One in the heart, one in the head. Back on the ground, the worst appears to be over. Haylen has lowered her weapon, panting. Two more soldiers pace the compound, finishing off any ghouls that are wounded or dying.

“Jesus, Andy, what the hell was that?” Haylen asks, eyes wide, when Andy returns to her side. “You fight like a super mutant.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what that is,” Andy retorts, grimacing. “I think I’ve met enough wasteland creatures for one lifetime.”

“You really, really don't,” Haylen agrees. She seems unwilling to drop the subject, but then her mouth drops open in a little  _ o,  _ and she spins on her heel.  _ “Rhys!” _

Andy watches her rush to the man’s aid, a small smile touching the corners of her mouth. She suspected as much. The way Haylen’s eyes softened whenever his name came up in her stories, or the way her voice raised an octave over details involving him were dead giveaways. Judging from the way he bellowed at her to leave him to die and help Haylen instead, the feeling is mutual. She watches Haylen huddle low over him for a moment, taking his vitals. The sight stirs something in her. A sadness she can’t quite place, dulling the hum in her blood combat brought. She feels as though she is... mourning.

She joins the others in finishing off what remains of the enemy. There are so many desiccated corpses covering the ground it is difficult to find earth to place her feet on. From what the others could gather, a wandering ghoul stepped on a perimeter mine. The sound drew others, and before long the ensuing firefight drew every ghoul in the nearby vicinity like bugs to a light. How long were they fighting? Minutes? Hours? She should feel fatigued, but she doesn’t. She presses fingers to her throat, and is surprised to find her pulse normal. Free of the Institute’s drugs, her body has recovered itself at an incredible rate. Days ago, she was on the verge of death in the middle of nowhere, hallucinating. She doesn’t need her memories to see this as… above average. As if she needed more mysteries to solve. 

They spend the remainder of the dark hours dragging the dead ghouls out of the compound, stacking them in burn piles far beyond the walls. The knight who was torn apart is gathered up as best as they are able, his remains placed in a body bag. Andy averts her eyes as she zips it closed. It feels impolite to stare at the distressed tissues and gored sockets. 

“Go rest up,” she tells the others. “I’ll dig a grave for him.”

They shuffle into the precinct one by one, heads down. Shoulders slumped. She gets the distinct impression this isn’t the first time they have experienced loss. There is more resignation in the lines of their bodies than there is grief. She hefts the shovel and, hauling the body bag behind her, makes for the treeline outside of Cambridge. The sun has risen above the hills, and she decides as she begins to delve her shovel into the soft earth that this land isn’t so bad. A strange thought to have as she sets about the task of burying fruit puree that was once a man. She is aware of the irony. And sure, it’s full of horrible things that are hell-bent on human destruction… but it beats white walls and impending doom. She would rather fight like that every single day of however short the rest of her life is, than be a prisoner again.

She remembers the Director’s cold, hard eyes and snarls involuntarily. With each scrape of rock against the spade of her shovel, she imagines it is the Director’s grave she is digging rather than Knight Keene’s. She will help the Brotherhood, if only to see that fucker burn.

She stops digging, staring at the ground before her. 

_ I’ve done this before. _

Her hands tighten around the shovel, breathing in shallow gasps as memory flits before her, just out of reach.

_ I’ve stood on bloodied ground, a shovel in my hand, and dug a hole to bury someone. Someone… important to me. _

The intense Déjà vu fades, the slip of memory lost to the gusting wind and an overly enthusiastic cricket chirping somewhere. 

“No,” she whispers raggedly. “No, no, not yet. Come the fuck on.”

She sighs with exasperation, taking out her frustration and pent-up energy on the hapless ground beneath her shovel. She is hip-deep in the hole when she hears a familiar  _ boom, boom, boom.  _ Something very large and heavy is coming up the road. Power armor. Danse. In a ludicrous moment, her heart does a stuttering pitter-pat at the thought. It is a reminder that, while cryo might have fucked up her brain, the rest of her is very much intact.  _ Shit.  _ She needs to head him off before he gets a good look at the chaos. Before he sees her in this hole, and the reason for the hole existing still in a body bag. Shaking herself, she clambers up out of the hole. Her sweatpants are filthy, stained with gore and mud. The sweatshirt is tied about her waist, and her skin is caked in grime and dirt.  _ Gee, Andy, you sure know how to lure them in, don’t you? The wasteland musk will be irresistible. _

She jogs down the road, the muzzle of Keene’s rifle bouncing against the back of her thigh. Danse pauses at her approach, reaching up to remove his helmet. She can see the alarm on his face at the sight of her. No doubt she looks like the embodiment of a really bad dream, coming down the road like this. He looks as exhausted as the others did, as though he didn’t sleep at all. 

“Danse,” she nods, slowing to a stop several feet from him. “There’s something--”

“What happened?” He asks, voice lowered in foreboding alarm.

“We were overrun by feral ghouls,” she explains, gesturing at herself as if the state of her is the only visual aid he needs. “Somewhere around midnight. They came from all over Cambridge, drawn by the sound of our gunfire.”

“My team,” he demands, pain flashing in his eyes. “Are they… Did they survive?”

“We lost one,” she confesses, feeling incredibly guilty for delivering bad news to him. “Knight Keene. They… overwhelmed him. I couldn’t make it to him in time.”

“You?” He asks, sounding nonplussed. “You fought alongside the others? I was under the impression you had no memory of… Anything.”

“I don’t, but apparently my body does.” She rubs at the back of her neck, uncomfortable with the way his eyes are boring into her. “Turns out I’m surprisingly handy with a rifle.”

He lets out a long sigh. “That might have been helpful to know earlier. ArcJet was crawling with Institute synths. Backup would have been helpful, though… It seems you were exactly where you needed to be in a time of crisis. If you were not there to aid my team, things might have gone differently.” He eyes her for a long moment. “You and I have both had a very long night. Don’t take this the wrong way, soldier, but… you need a shower.”

“Unless you’re offering to join me, it will have to wait,” she retorts with a grin, which immediately fades. “I’ve got one last thing to do before I can tidy up and rest.”

His gaze flicks over her muddy boots and the dirt under her fingernails. “Keene.”

She nods. “Your people are spent. Exhausted. And the way Keene went… We couldn’t leave him like that. I was the least wilted of the lettuce bunch, so I volunteered to dig the grave. I was almost done when I heard your approach. I just… wanted to tell you first, so you didn’t walk into an ambush. The precinct is a mess. We cleared the bodies out, but… well, you’ll see. The dirt isn’t exactly brown anymore.”

“I will join you,” he decides. She can almost see him pick up his pain and shove it down deep. An action as automatic as scratching an itch or running a hand through his hair. It is the way of a soldier. Package your pain, stow it away for later. Compartmentalize. When the job is done and you are alone, you may grieve… and only then. She knows without truly  _ knowing  _ it that she has done the same, time and time again. A lump rises in her throat, and she fights the sudden desire to reach out and place her palm against the chestplate of his armor. To let him know he isn’t alone, and if he needs to grieve, she will keep watch.

Instead, she turns back the way she came. He follows her silently, his dark eyes brooding and his face stony and lined with fatigue. The place she chose is beneath a large elm. It seemed… peaceful. Serene. Whether it is the proximity to the river or some other reason, it has more leaves than most Commonwealth trees seem to. It is a good resting place. A suitable spot for a soldier to lay at rest for the coming years. When she reaches for the shovel again, a gauntleted fist closes over her hand. Danse shakes his head.

“Allow me. Please. It should be me that does this.”

She nods, stepping away. Danse pulls the release on his power armor, climbing out of it and returning to the shovel. He is clad in a flight suit, and were it a less somber occasion she might dwell longer on the tailoring of it. He reaches up and pulls the cowl free, tossing it in the grass. His thick, dark hair is messy. Sweaty. There is a soft wave to it, and a lock falls over his forehead and clings to the damp skin there. His jaw is set with determination, and he crawls back down into the half-dug grave and begins to shovel dirt out like a man possessed. Quiet fury burns within him, fuels his sapping strength until he is renewed. Anger is power. Andy knows this. And right now… Danse needs to be angry at something, or he will crumble in this waist-deep hole and never crawl out of it again.

She gives him his space, crouching beside the grave and watching silently as the shovels of dirt fly. Time stretches on, and as he disappears lower and lower into the ground, he begins to speak.

“Eight of them,” he growls, flinging dirt and gravel. He is speaking more to himself than to her. “There were eight under my command when we arrived in the Commonwealth. Now there are four. Half my team is dead, because of decisions I made.”

“Soldiers know the risks when they sign up,” she says softly, ducking an arc of loose earth.

“Of course they do,” he growls without slowing. “But they trust in their leaders to make sound choices. I was sloppy last night. Cocky. If I hadn’t gone to ArcJet, Keene would still be alive. That’s the fact of the matter. With my armor, I am the best suited to combat.”

“You don’t know that.”

He does pause this time, looking over at his shoulder angrily. He isn’t angry at her. She knows this. He is angry at himself. He straightens, leaning on the shovel, and looks at her.

“How can anyone have confidence in me, after all this?” His eyes are almost beseeching when they focus on hers. “Hell, how can I have confidence in myself?”

His sudden vulnerability surprises her. She supposes the only reason he is being this open is because she is not one of his people. Not one of the Brotherhood. She is allowed to see him weakened, because she does not answer to him. Does not look up to him. They are separate, but equal.

“I haven’t been around here long,” she replies. “But I’ve heard enough about you from Haylen to know your people care about you, as much as you clearly care about them. They trust you because you have earned their trust. I am going to have to agree with them on that judgement. It was made soundly. It’s the reason I’m still here.”

The storm in him suddenly relents, and something in his eyes softens when he looks at her. It has a surprising effect. Heat unfurls within her, as though her insides are made of dry tinder and someone has set a torch to them. 

“I… Never thought about it that way,” he confesses, brows lifting from the precarious cliff they have formed. “Thank you.”

She extends a hand to him. “Time to climb out of that hole, Danse. It’s deep enough.” 

She isn’t talking about the grave itself, and the look on his face tells her he understands as much. He takes her hand gratefully, and she does her best to ignore how incredibly  _ pleasant  _ his calloused fingers feel against her skin. Together, they lower Knight Keene to his final resting place. Danse allows her to reclaim the shovel, standing to the side and mopping at his brow while she begins to shovel the dirt back in. The sun is high in the sky now, surprisingly relentless for spring. When it is done and the earth is packed down tightly, Andy balances the shovel on one shoulder and Danse climbs back into his armor. They walk back to the precinct, side by side. A Steel Mountain and a… what did Haylen call her? A super mutant? 

“I forgot to ask,” Andy says, looking up at Danse. “Did you find what you needed in ArcJet?”

“Yes,” he answers, looking grimly pleased. “The deep range transmitter is in my pack. Once Haylen installs it, the Capital will hear our call for aid. And then… We will take on the Institute.”

“How long do you think they’ll be getting here?” She asks, curious.

He shrugs, armor clanking as steel grates against steel. “Weeks, perhaps. Maybe a month. It’s hard to say. It depends on how quickly Elder Maxson can muster his forces and travel here.”

“Then there’s time,” she muses. “Danse, I don’t think I should stay here. If those Institute Coursers figure out where I am, Keene won’t be the last casualty. I need to go. Not only to protect you and yours, but to figure out what the hell happened in that vault. I need to know why the Institute wants what’s in my head so badly. Until I figure that out, I’m just blind-firing at the enemy.”

He sighs. “I didn’t think you would stay long. Allow me to properly equip you, at least. Going back out into the wasteland the way we found you is a poor tactical choice. It sounds like you are more than capable of defending yourself at least, so I will try not to worry about your well-being.”

“Aww, you’re already worrying about me? How sweet.” She grins impishly, but it freezes on her face when she sees the flicker of…  _ something  _ in his expression. There and gone again, so quickly it might have been a ghost. But she  _ did _ see it, and her cheeks warm suddenly in response. She’s not the only one with cartoon heart-eyes.

“Haylen will provide you a radio,” he blunders on, his own face looking a little pinker. “If you are in need, you may reach out to us. We will do what we can, however limited it might be. I would recommend you speak to others in the Commonwealth. Perhaps there are people out there willing to aid you in your journey for answers. I know we have picked up some radio chatter in Concord recently. Perhaps someone there knows more about your vault.”

“I’ll look into it,” she nods. “Thank you. Now, about joining me for a shower...”

_ “Andy.”  _

She laughs, he rolls his eyes, and they step back into the precinct’s perimeter. He might seem the all-business type, but she suspects under the Tough Soldier act, there’s a man who likes things like IPAs and baseball. And maybe scraggly wasteland scraps named Andy.

Their next meal is a muted affair. Rhys looks considerably better, having been patched up by Haylen’s capable hands. The team relays the events of the past hours to Danse, who listens grimly. Nobody has much appetite, pushing their rations around on their trays or staring into the questionable green mash as though it might have some thoughts on Knight Keene’s demise. They are exhausted, demoralized. Almost hopeless. Danse tells them he is proud of them, that they have fought with great courage.  _ Tomorrow, we will gather around Keene’s grave and say our last respects,  _ he tells them. 

The kindness in his voice makes Andy’s throat tighten, and she has to excuse herself on the pretense of using the restroom. In truth, she feels strangely like crying. Double Andy was correct. Danse does remind her of someone. Ghosts of memory that torment her at every turn, but refuse to be seen. Ghosts? Hell, more like a poltergeist. Some asshole of a specter throwing shit at her from where it hangs on a busted chandelier. Either way, Danse is a hell of a man. His inability to see himself the way his own people see him somehow adds to the allure. He is both confident in his abilities as a soldier and wary of his capability as a leader. 

After dinner, Danse seeks her out where she is perched on the edge of the precinct rooftop. He joins her, lowering his bulk onto the edge beside her. Not quite close enough to touch, though their flattened hands seem to inch closer of their own accord until their pinky fingers are centimeters apart. Andy decides it is easier to face a horde of ghouls than to attempt to hold the paladin’s hand, and so they sit in companionable silence for a time and watch the sun go down. The sky shifts from a hazy orange to crimson and coral, the cloudless sky interrupted only by scattered flocks of birds. When the last bit of the sun slips behind the hills again, Danse begins to talk. He tells her of his time as a child, scavenging for food and anything he might sell for a few caps. An orphan, dirty and alone and afraid. He tells her of Rivet City, and his endeavor into a life as a trader. He goes light on the details, and she does not miss the careful omission of personal events. There is a sadness in his voice, as he recollects. A sadness stemming from something more than his lonely childhood. Whatever it is, he isn’t ready to share it. Perhaps one day.

She keeps her silence. He obviously needs to talk, and she is the only one he feels able to open up to. His mood shifts when he gets to the subject of the Brotherhood and his enlistment. Pride gleams in his eyes as the moon’s crescent appears in the darkening sky. She envies his sense of purpose, of belonging. Her only sense of purpose is in seeking out what was lost. To figure out who she is, why she is, and where she came from. Hardly as noble as saving the Commonwealth from the evils of the Institute. At some point, her pinky finger overlaps his. He feigns nonchalance at the contact, but she sees the way he swallows, Adams apple bobbing nervously. The darkness hides her little smile of victory, and he makes no attempt to move his hand or dislodge her.

It isn’t until the cot welcomes her aching and newly cleaned body that she realizes how  _ tired  _ she is. She has been up for nearly 36 hours straight, and whatever tricks her body might have up its sleeve, it has apparently used them all. She moans softly in relief as she crawls into the sleeping bag again. With her fabulous sweatsuit absolutely destroyed, Danse sacrificed a tee shirt and pair of combat pants for her to wear. There was no way in hell Haylen’s clothing would be big enough for Andy’s shoulders. The shirt is far too large, despite Andy’s own considerable stature. The pants required a belt, and she did not tighten it without first considering how nicely  _ someone’s  _ posterior must have filled them. Ensconced safely in the sleeping bag, she pulls the neckline of the tee shirt up to her nose and inhales. Fuck, it smells like… wam skin, armor oil, and gunpowder. What a delightful and appealing aroma.

_ Jesus, Andy, get it together. You barely know him.  _

She closes her eyes, nestles further down in the sleeping bag, and welcomes sleep at last. In her dreams, she is digging a grave.

_ She digs deeper and deeper, until she can no longer see over the edges. She digs through dirt and shale, until the tip of her shovel strikes water. It bubbles up from the ground, soaking her boots, rising ever-higher. She doesn’t move, doesn’t try to climb out. She simply stands there, welcoming the rising water, until it is filling her mouth and nose and closing over her head. The last thing she sees is the sky, a slip of blue that disappears before the muddy waters. _


	8. All-You-Can-Eat-Buffet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It honestly wasn't my intention/expectation to post so much. But I'm in the full throes of muse and have written rather copious amounts. Oops.
> 
> Forgive me, but after this chapter we will deviate from the lovely Danse for a little while. I have soooo much story to tell.
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Danse walks with her to the perimeter of Cambridge. He has opted to go without his power armor for the brief journey, choosing instead to wear his typical uniform of BDUs. His expression seems grim, despite her being somewhat armed to the teeth. She has a laser pistol on her hip and an M1 Garand across her back. Haylen stuffed a pack full to bursting with rations, medical supplies, and reloads. There is even a handful of grenades, and the thought of blowing something up is strangely warming. Like a cozy fire, on a cold winter’s night. The straps dig into her shoulders, and if Andy weren’t built like a brick house, she might complain about the weight of it. The buildings give way to crumbling asphalt and sparse trees, and she wonders if she will see him again. If this is it, and a mile from here some Courser will put a bullet in her.

“Frowning like that will give you wrinkles, you know. That would be a shame.”

She raises her eyebrows at the compliment. “Excuse me,  _ sir? _ Was that…  _ Gasp _ … A compliment?”

“You’re an enigma, Andy,” he seems unfazed by her teasing. He turns to her, and the way the sun catches the deep amber of his eyes makes her mouth go a little dry. “You came out of nowhere. No memories, built like someone who knows how to deal serious damage. Proficient with weaponry, and yet somehow incredibly…  _ relaxed. _ I thought perhaps you were a soldier, but the ease you carry yourself with speaks more to civilian, or hired gun. I’ve been trying to figure out how you fit into the scheme of all this, and nothing I come up with makes any sense.”

“I can’t tell if you  _ like _ me or you’re afraid of me.”

His eyes twinkle at that. “Perhaps both. Unknowns make me nervous. Unknowns get you killed. My first thought…” He hesitates, letting his voice trail off.

“What?” She prompts, eyes narrowing.

“I thought you might be a synth. No memory of who you were, and wearing that strange white jumpsuit… I considered shooting you on those train tracks.”

She puts her fists on her hips.  _ “Paladin Danse, _ that was not very nice of you. For shame! So, what stopped you? Why the change of heart?”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking rueful. “It was… the pain in your eyes. I don’t know how else to explain it, but… I looked into your eyes and I saw a mirror of my own pain. I know you don’t remember your life before, but I think perhaps you and I are much more alike than either of us may ever know.”

“I  _ could _ be a synth,” she ventures. “You should probably check me thoroughly. I might have wires or buttons somewhere. Best be  _ very _ thorough.”

He laughs at that. It is a low, rich, hearty sound that resonates through her bones and somehow also slips over her skin like cool silk. She is fairly certain he doesn’t laugh often, and the gift of such a rare treat will not be easily forgotten.

“You’re exhausting. Surely you know that.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “I don’t know much, but I know I never give up. You’re in for a long ride, my friend.”

Another glimpse of the unnamed emotion in his eyes, before the warmth of his smile chases it away. 

“I look forward to it.”

_ Ohhh, boy. _

“Hey, Trouble,” she says, clearing her throat and punching him gently in the chest. “Don’t be too hard on yourself while I’m gone. I don’t want to hear reports of you stomping around the precinct, brooding and grumbling to yourself. Remember that we endure pain because we must, but there is no rule stating that pain must be borne alone. Don’t be afraid to lean on them, as they lean on you. That isn’t weakness. Being open, being vulnerable… That takes a hell of a lot of strength.”

“You are surprisingly wise for someone with no memories,” he offers a halfhearted smile. “But I will do my best to heed your advice.”

“And you’re not as thick as you look.” She tries not to dwell too long on  _ that  _ thought, or on his barrel chest and powerful arms. His answer to that is a snort, though he does not look particularly displeased.

“You know, Danse… You can lean on me, too. Any time.” She winks, then turns to face the road before her. She doesn’t want him to see the splash of crimson straining her cheeks. “Stay out of trouble, Trouble. Unless it’s the fun kind.”

The length and force of his answering sigh makes her chuckle to herself long after the crumbling walls of Cambridge are far behind her. It’s a beautiful day in the Commonwealth. She has made her first friends in this place, the sun is shining, her stomach is full, there are Coursers hunting for her and the world has been destroyed by nuclear bombs…

Ah, fuck. Whatever. She’s still wearing his tee shirt, safe beneath a generously provided tac vest, and she has absolutely no plans to return it to him.

-

Her second foray into the Commonwealth proves to be far more successful. Funny how proper equipment and being cured of chem addiction alters the human experience. She sees more malformed deer, and is relieved to find they aren’t aggressive. Several sets of twin heads lift in unison, nostrils flaring as they scent her on the air, and then they are bounding off in graceful unison through the surrounding trees. She follows the old and bent road signs, noting they are riddled with rusting bullet holes. A caravan passes her, and she gives them a wide berth, the guards watching her with suspicious eyes, rifles partially raised. She salutes unceremoniously, observing their… cow? Is also two-headed. She wonders absently if there are two-headed people. Seems like damn near everything else is in the doubles.

There are more feral ghouls overrunning the train crossing south of Concord. At this point, she knows what to expect. While terrifyingly fast, the radiation-warped humans aren’t particularly smart.  _ Feral _ is a very apt descriptor for them, for they all seem to attack with the finesse of a Kansas tornado, and she picks off most of them from a distance. She was not particularly inclined to be chewed upon with snaggle teeth back in Cambridge, and she is no more inclined to be chewed on now. 

There are a lot of things wrong with the picture at Concord. First of all, there’s the gunfire. By the sound of it, there is an all-out war being waged amidst the ragged buildings. She can hear it long before she reaches the dilapidated little town, and it only grows louder and more sporadic the closer she gets. Second of all, there are bodies littering the street. People who look to be the rough-and-tumble sort. Wielding weapons such as pipe rifles and barbed-wire-wrapped baseball bats, or modified garden tools. One of them got very creative with a leaf rake and hockey stick, from the looks of it. Apparently they were the type to cultivate people... to death. She peers closely at a few of the corpses. Finger-bone necklaces, face tattoos, excessive leather. A variety of piercings that look like pre-tetanus. Honestly, this was more along the lines of what she expected from a place like the Commonwealth. She was lucky to be found by Danse and his people. Nice and civilized, no jewelry of dubious origin. Not that she would mind seeing Paladin Danse in road leathers... But that is a thought for another time. 

She approaches with caution, staying as low as her lumbering hulk will allow, shadowing walls and burned out cars. That is when she finds the third alarming thing. A group of men and women like the dead ones she has stepped over on her way in seem to be in a fight for their lives… Against what can only be the result of an unholy union between a dragon, alligator, and longhorn cow. Heavy on the dragon, light on the cow. She watches with some interest as several of the humans go flying, hurtled aside by the sweep of a long and vicious clawed arm. She considers diving in, but judging by the way people are falling like leaves in autumn, she isn’t sure her chances of beating that thing are any better. Whatever the hell is going on, this isn't her fight. She decides the best thing to do is retreat, and is in the process of doing just that when the thing spies her. It roars and shakes its head, the wicked black horns gleaming in the sun.

_ Well, piss. _ Andy starts to regret not taking her chances with the Coursers. 

As it whips a surprisingly graceful body around to stalk up the street towards her, the creature’s tail sweeps two more men aside as though they weigh nothing. They crash violently into the nearest burned-out car. The beast’s movement is unhurried, sinuous. As though it is perfectly aware it could catch her if she turned tail, and intends to enjoy her dismemberment. The few humans left alive scatter, grateful for the change in fixation. The long and powerful haunches, flexing with muscle, are foreboding. Whatever it is, no doubt it can run a hell of a lot faster than her. Her body stubbornly refuses to be afraid. Instead, she feels anticipation. Excitement. Adrenaline. Her hands are steady as she raises her rifle. 30-06 rounds. While a reasonably effective round, she lacks some confidence in it as she eyes the scaly hide. Black, spiny peaks run the length of it’s back, in large and jagged overlapping plates. The belly looks to be more vulnerable. Softer, less armored. Must have gotten that from the alligator mama. She decides it is probably the only part of it that is susceptible to any kind of attack. They key will be evading those nasty arms, as long as she is tall. She doesn’t aim to be kebabbed by anything. Not today, at least.

A door opens on a balcony ahead of her, and a man peers over the railing.

“You! You’ve got to get the hell out of there. That deathclaw will tear you apart!”

She looks up at him, grinning. “Or maybe I’ll tear  _ it  _ apart.” Then, with less confidence, “...Maybe.”

The man looks at her as if she’s lost her damn mind, before his eyes flick back to the approaching beast.

“You’re joking, right, lady? _ Run. _ I’ll provide cover fire long enough for you to get away.”

“Just distract it for me,” she answers amiably, lowering her rifle and quickly unslinging her pack. Four frag grenades. That should be enough to put a dent in it.

She hears him mutter a curse, cranking his laser musket before opening fire on the  _ deathclaw.  _ What a perfect name for such a gloriously horrible creature. She entertains a brief fantasy of taming it and riding into the Institute on its back, before dismissing it. No way would it fit through a human doorway. A shame. She would have named it  _ Roy. _ She pulls the pin of the first grenade and hurls it through the air. It falls just shy of her mark, bouncing to a stop in front of the animal rather than underneath it. The frag detonates, and she hears a roar of fury as shrapnel pelts the deathclaw’s face. The second grenade is already airborne, the trajectory of it adjusted for greater distance. The creature is smart. Too smart. It dodges to one side, still agile despite being temporarily blinded. The grenade erupts, and as the smoke clears she can see inky blood shining wetly on scales. Well, the shrapnel is making it through the tougher scales, however superficial. 

Malevolent eyes, pale gold that is stark against black scales, fix on her. She sees the muscles coil and bunch beneath powerful shoulders, and then the thing is tearing across the remaining distance between them. No more leisurely pace. No more toying with her in a game of cat and mouse. It’s  _ pissed.  _ A fresh round of laser fire erupts from the balcony, focused at the deathclaw’s head. The deathclaw roars again, slowing slightly as it lifts it’s head to glower at the man with the laser musket. It veers from the original course, aka the All-You-Can-Eat-Andy-Buffet, swinging towards the battered building.

“Do you have a plan?” He shouts over the sound of his rifle.

“Yep,” she shouts back. “Stay tuned. I will be right back after this brief intermission.”

And with that, she steps around the corner of the building. She hears him shout, but there is no time to explain. The building shudders as the deathclaw collides with the front of it, and she can hear the crash of bricks as they fall to the ground in pieces, torn loose by enormous claws. It obviously plans to climb the side of the building to reach it’s dinner. She steps back into the street, and the enormous horned head whips around at the movement. This time, she is quick enough. She lobs the two remaining grenades together, shouting,

“Get down!”

The man stumbles back into the building just in time. A double shockwave ripples through the street. She braces herself against it, certain she is just shy of the ensuing shrapnel. The grenades, having landed at the creature’s feet as it scrabbled for purchase against the building, send it careening back. She hears an eerie howl of pain, and as she approaches with her rifle to her shoulder, she sees the damage done. As she hoped, the deathclaw’s softer underside caught the brunt of the dual blast. Blood and viscera shine in the daylight, painting the cracked asphalt beneath the creature a murky, almost black crimson. She doesn’t know fuck-all about a deathclaw’s anatomy, but she fires at where she thinks the vital things might be. On most four or two-legged creatures, the chest cavity is a safe bet. She fires three shots as she approaches, and is surprised when the animal’s taloned feet still kick and grapple at the ground beneath it. 

She stops seven feet away, just clear of the grasping talons. 

“Sorry, Roy,” she says with genuine remorse. “I think we might have been good pals if you weren’t so hell-bent on skewering me.” 

And then she puts two more rounds into the creature’s skull, right through the baleful golden eye. The legs shudder, stiffen, and go still at last. More blood, the same inky crimson, dribbles from the gaping mouth full of splendidly sharp teeth. She steps closer, crouching beside the beast, and runs a hand over the bloodied scales. She finds some margin of relief in the fact  _ this  _ particular horror didn’t have two heads. That might have been enough to make her take her chances running. Even as she thinks it, she knows better. Experimentally, she holds two fingers to her pulse. Normal. Someday, she should see a doctor about that. Maybe X6 isn’t the only one who’s a robot, after all.

“I hate to interrupt you down there,” the man on the balcony says, having returned to his post with the danger gone. “But if you’re of a mind to return the favor… I’ve got people trapped in here. There’s raiders at the door, and they’re almost through.”

She cranes her head to look up at him and grins again. She is suddenly in a rather fine mood, despite Roy’s tragic death. “I guess fair’s fair. I’ll be right up.”

In truth, she relishes the idea for more bloodshed. She questions the enthusiasm, then chalks it up to her body’s usual bizarre responses to stress. Then she asks herself if she might be murdering innocents to help some half-crazy warmonger. Nah, she decides. No self-respecting warmonger would wear a hat like that. And besides, he’s not the one wearing finger-bone necklaces or brandishing a modified leaf rake. He seemed perfectly respectable with his fancy coat and laser musket. She glances down at the deceased Roy 2 one last time, before jogging the short distance to the old museum’s doors.

-

“Hang on, this is… a lot to absorb.” Preston runs a hand over his face, the gesture of a man who is very fucking tired. The firelight only serves to deepen the shadows of his face, enhancing the myriad of fine lines acquired over a life of hardship. “You’re… Two hundred and ten years old, the Institute’s most wanted, human-like synths are real and not just rumors, and you’re in the Brotherhood’s good graces. I don’t even know where to begin. Damn. Just… Damn.”

Andy shrugs, offering the whiskey bottle. “Less worry, more drinky?”

“I’m already seeing two of you,” he groans, shaking his head. 

“That makes two of us,” she murmurs absently. "Fucking Double Andy."

“What?” Preston asks, then thinks better of it. “Never mind. I don’t think I could handle any more weirdness. _ Hey, _ you’re wearing my hat.” His hands pat at his own head, finding it empty, realizing the absurd hat now graces her own crown.

“You put it on me, remember?” She rolls her eyes. “Right after you dubbed me General of your motley crew and insisted we each drink a shot in celebration. As if I don’t have enough shit on my plate. See: Aforementioned Coursers are hunting me. I can’t be your General, you know. You’re painting a target on your back as surely as there is one on mine. Haven’t you had enough trouble of late without mixing me into the recipe? Anything I’m an ingredient in is bound to be a shit cake.”

Preston looks unrepentant. “Look, someone’s gotta do it, right? Leadership isn’t really my thing, not to mention whatever confidence people might have had in me is gone. You’re an unknown. They’re more likely to trust someone they haven’t seen fail. Besides… the way I see it, the more people you have on your side… willing to fight beside you or defend you… The harder you’re gonna be to kill. So, you help me. You help us. And we help you.”

_ Unknowns get you killed. _

“So far all you have helped me do is get shitfaced.”

He blinks sleepily, swaying in the horrible faded pink lawn chair. Somehow, the flamingo print in the brittle plastic has remained disturbingly vivid over the centuries, the beady eyes and large beaks a true testament to the marvels of modern engineering. She sits in the twin to his chair, surprisingly steady for the amount of whiskey sloshing around in her gut. It’s technically her first alcohol as Brainless Andy, and it is everything she hoped it would be. Liquid fire, burning its way down her throat and heating her insides in a way strangely similar to how she feels when she eyes Danse’s torso. Fuck, Andy. Thoughts for another time.  _ Alone time. _

“I think… I’m a lot more drunk than you,” he points out. “Now, before I pass out… Two things. One, I’m pretty sure there’s a vault at the top of the hills overlooking this place. Mama Murphy mentioned something about a… tomb, when she saw this place in her vision. She called it a place out of time, much like you are now. If you allow me a night to sleep this whiskey off, I’ll accompany you to investigate it. If any of your unwanted friends appear, two are better than one in a fight. Secondly…” He sways, tilting at an alarming angle, before righting himself. “You should talk to her. She might have some insight into what happened to you.”

“Preston, you seem like a super duper nice guy,” Andy answers, brow raised. “But I don’t know if I believe this magical granny nonsense. You’re telling me that old bat sees things and they come true?”

The old bat comment seems to offend him. “Her  _ name  _ is Mama Murphy. And yeah, I know it sounds crazy. But trust me on this. I’ve been with her long enough to see the extent of her visions. They led us here, didn’t they?”

“The busted up road led you here,” Andy sighs. “As well as your legs. But fine. I’ll talk to her, hear her out. But only if you promise me I get to keep this horrible hat once you’ve sobered up. No take-backsies.”

His eyes are already closing, the prospect of drunken sleep luring him away. “Fine,” he mumbles. “Deal. It looks better on the General of the Minutemen anyway.”

He smiles when she groans, as though this is all a grand joke he is rather enjoying. He has a sweet face, however careworn it might be. Considering he was willing to shoot at a deathclaw to provide her time to run, even at his own peril, she is sure of the strength of his character. She was a stranger, stumbling into a complete disaster, and he still stuck his neck out for her. Seems only right she stick her own neck out in turn. Not like she has a lengthy to-do list, anyway. There are only two things on the list. Don’t get killed by Coursers, and figure out what is rattling around in her brain that the Director wanted so badly.

She waits until Preston is snoring softly to disentangle herself from the nightmarish flamingos, certain their breaky faces are judging her as she stumbles. Dogmeat, the large German shepherd accompanying Preston’s people, rouses himself from his slumber at their feet to tag along. She makes her way through the dark streets of Sanctuary Hills, grateful for the mostly full moon. There is no power here, though Preston has hopes of building some generators and setting up proper defenses. She can’t blame him for the sense of urgency. The past weeks of his life have been hell. His organization betrayed from within, everyone but the handful of people with him slaughtered. Hell of a thing. She can’t remember experiencing such an event, but somehow she understands what it feels like so completely she feels his sorrow as though it were her own. She is nearing the circle with the enormous dead elm tree in the center when a light flicks on, shining brightly in her eyes. With a sound of disgust, she raises her hand, shielding herself from the glare.

“Sturges, is that you? Jesus, turn that thing off.”

“Miss Andy?” An incredulous British voice asks, lowering the light. “As I live and breathe, is that really you!? I hardly recognized you! You look so different with that - dare I say, rather  _ posh _ \- haircut of yours!”

She hears the whirr of machinery, spies the glow of a rocket burner. Eye stalks rotate enthusiastically, viewing her from all angles. It is a Mr Handy, just like in the magazine and her vague sense of familiarity. Though unlike the shiny depiction in the faded magazine, this one looks far worse for wear. Tarnished metal, clanking gears, reeking of old oil and proper English despair.

“You know me?” She asks, feeling a sudden thrill. A piece of her life from before, at last!

“Well of course I know you!” The robot declares jovially. “Don’t you recognize  _ me?  _ Codsworth, mum! You lived just down the street from my family’s home. Though, I daresay you kept to yourself for the most part. A bit of a shut-in, as it were. How good to see you out and about, taking in the fresh air!”

She looks around herself, slowly and deliberately, to make a point of the half-dead landscape and destroyed homes surrounding them. The subtlety is lost on the robot, who seems oblivious to the decay.

“Fresh air. Right. So, ah, help me out here… It’s been a while. What do you remember about me?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, mum. You wish to know what I remember about you?”

She shrugs and offers her most disarming grin. “Let’s just say I… Took a bump to my head a while back. Since then, memory has been fuzzy. I’m having a hard time putting names to faces, that kind of thing.”

The eye stalks bob eagerly. “I’d be delighted to assist. Well, as I said, you were a bit of a shut-in. I hope you don’t mind my saying it, mum, but at times you were rather aloof, almost rude. All the neighbors talked about it. You’d answer a proper cheery hello with a little jerk of your head, nothing more. You were the talk of the town. So very mysterious.”

“Sounds like I was an asshole,” she murmurs thoughtfully. “What else?”

“Well, I er, don’t mean to sound like a gossip, but… You often had visitors. Never during the daylight. It was always at night. Weekly, though sometimes two or three weeks would go by between visits. Usually the same two or three men. They would knock on the door, you would let them in… and then they’d be gone before the sun rose.”

She frowns, folding her arms. “Sounds like you spent a lot of time watching me, Codsworth. That’s a little creepy.”

Codworth sniffs, sounding rather offended. “I was trimming the geraniums, I assure you. It was merely a coincidence.”

She tries not to laugh at the mental image of Codsworth as the nosy old neighbor. Curlers in his…uh, hair?... a floral nightgown, clutching a newspaper to his chest like a shield against discovery.

“So I was a mean-spirited hooker,” she muses. “Anything else?”

“Well, I believe you worked for Vault-Tec. Every morning, a van with their logo picked you up. Though if you don’t mind my saying, I believe you were something like a janitor, based on the uniform you wore. No white coat for you.”

“What the fuck,” she mutters to herself, running her hand through her hair and making it stick up at all angles. Had to be at least two inches long by now. Shit, it grew fast.

“Miss Andy… I do believe your old home is one of the few remaining standing. If you would like, I could lead you there. Perhaps it would shed some light on the mysteries of your ailing memory.”

“I would appreciate that,” she says sincerely. “Thank you, Codsworth.”

“Right this way! We’ll have your mind sorted out in a jiffy!” 

She follows, suppressing a sigh. Truly, the robot has a disgusting amount of good cheer. Whoever designed his protocols must have been one passive aggressive son of a bitch. He leads her to the opposite side of the neighborhood, telling her in great detail about the lengths he has taken to preserve his family’s flowerbeds despite the bombs going off.  _ He doesn’t realize they’re dead,  _ she thinks, stunned.  _ He’s acting like they’ll turn up at any minute, praising him for his gardening and asking if he wouldn’t mind throwing a roast in the oven for dinner.  _ There is something incredibly sad about the machine’s undying hope. She decides to leave him to his delusions. Better they comfort him, than bring him despair.

The house is, as promised, reasonably intact. Many of the large acrylic siding panels are gone, stripped by time and the elements. The yard is a tangle of brambles and weeds. The door is blown off its hinges, still lying in the entryway where it fell. She steps inside, and glass from the shattered pane crunches beneath her boot. Where the other houses have furniture in them, this one is surprisingly spartan. As though it has been stripped of almost everything, though she suspects that is not the case. No one would want half-melted polyester couches. There are no armchairs, no couches, no crumbling rugs. No burned-out TV or rickety coffee table. Only cracked vinyl flooring, molding piles of leaves, and the smell of the Commonwealth. Rotten, damp, empty. Dogmeat sniffs around, seeming as curious as they are on the state of things.

The kitchen is not much different. The cabinets still clinging to the walls hold a variety of canned goods. Petrified TV Dinners remain in the freezer, the door hanging open. The withered magnetic seal gave up a century ago, from the looks of it. There are a couple dishes, some utensils, pots and pans. Enough for one person to live a very nutritionally mediocre life. The dining table is on its side, a small round laminate-covered item the size of a personal table you might find in a street cafe. Only big enough for one. The cheap folding chair accompanying it is folded flat, lying on the floor where the blast threw it. Looking around, it is hard to believe anyone lived here. Least of all her. She expected to find… Piles of empty IPA bottles. Some trash magazines. Maybe some ancient pizza boxes and mildewed socks. This is not what she imagined her life would be, and the sheer emptiness of it stuns her.

“Well, you certainly weren’t one for frills,” Codsworth says in a somewhat judgmental tone. No doubt he disapproves of the lack of decorative vases and quaint portraits of kittens playing with balls of yarn.

She wanders down the hall, grateful for Codsworth’s light shining over her shoulder. Without the moon, the interior is shadowed. Too dark to see without aid. The bathroom is equally utilitarian. A threadbare, stiff towel still hangs from the drying rack. There is a comb, toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste. She lifts a stick of deodorant, and finds it has shriveled down into a desiccated pellet that rattles when she shakes the tube. Nothing more. No other toiletries. No decorations. No sign of… life.

There is a guest room, but it stands entirely empty. There isn’t so much as a chair. The master bedroom sports little more than nothing. There is a utilitarian dresser in one corner with a lamp atop it. The drawers all pulled open, left that way by scavengers over the years no doubt. Clothes are strewn about where they were tossed. She crouches, pokes at a pile of stiff blue fabric. There is a Vault-Tec logo on the lapel. With the exception of underclothes and socks - all formerly a uniform white - the rest is much the same. Vault-Tec jumpsuits. She owned no other clothes. No cutoff shorts or flowing floral tops. Not even a fuzzy pink bathrobe or bunny slippers. The only other furniture in the room is a bed that hardly passes for its namesake. It is more a cot than anything. Twin size, the spring frame a folding variety. The mattress is stained by rainwater and snow, thin and pitiful. Stitching has burst at the corners, showing brittle yellow foam within. She somehow doubts it was a comfortable bed  _ before  _ the bombs dropped. Never mind what it would be like to sleep on now.

“Perhaps… Someone stole all your furniture?” Codsworth ventures, shining his light around somewhat despairingly, as though doing so will result in furniture appearing from wherever it has scuttled off to.

“I don’t think so,” she replies, chewing her lip. “I guess I really was a shut-in, huh?”

“Well, you seem to have recovered nicely,” Codsworth offers helpfully. “You’ve made some wasteland friends already! Perhaps the bombs falling were a good thing, eh?”

“I’m not sure there is a person alive who might claim that,” she shrugs. “But thank you for showing me this place. It’s… something, at least. More than I had.”

“Of course! Would you fancy coming by for a cup of tea? You look a bit peaked, and I make a mean cup of Earl Gray.”

She is about to protest on account of the whiskey, then realizes she is entirely stone-cold sober. There is no more wobble to her gait, and the warmth in her belly has disappeared. Son of a bitch. Her goddamn body metabolized it as fast as she could drink it.  _ Yeah, _ she decides,  _ I’m definitely going to have to see someone about this. _

“Tea would be great,” she sighs. Though something tells her whatever he offers is likely going to be dirt water rather than an actual cup of tea.


End file.
